A Year of Extremes

Photo by anat_tikker.

I have never been one for extremes.  I'm not a couch potato nor am I an adrenaline junkie.  I don't like thrift stores nor have I ever bought anything at Chanel.  I workout on a regular basis, but I'll eat a buffalo burger and fries with the best of 'em.  I've baked a few cookies in my day, but I couldn't tell you what the hell a 'roulade' is.  I've never been straight-edge nor have I been a hardcore partier.  I even claim agnostic... how much more neutral can one get? 

Every NYE a dear friend of mine 'deems' the next year "The year of [fill in the blank.]"  If I could sum up 2011 upon looking back, it would be "The Year of Extremes."  I didn't simply go on a vacation this year; I took three months off to walk 1000 miles through Europe with my mother.  I didn't simply fall in love; I met the love of my life.  And the kicker?  He lives thousands of miles away overseas.  I didn't just move; I suffered through a bout of bed bugs that sent me packing to a new apartment with an eviction notice awaiting.  I didn't have a few doctor's visits; I had two surgeries and mounds of medical bills.  I didn't simply get a few parking tickets like normal folk; I got into a full on car accident with a couple who hopped out like paparazzi and took pictures of the damage before I even realized I'd been in an accident.  I didn't simply chip a tooth; I cracked it on piece of sea salt in a thousand year old convent and had to have a root canal.  I'm not simply engaged to be married; I'm getting hitched in Vegas - the town where extremes are born.  And for the first time in my life I've had to hire a lawyer... Two of them!

Life has been a roller coaster ride since I took my first step in the Arles soil and began my Camino journey.  On the Camino, every day plays out much like the one before.  The real extreme is not so much the miles or the vagabond lifestyle (although those are up there), as it is the emotions you have to roll up your sweat-wicking sleeves and deal with.  Emotions you either have to battle or find a comfortable home for.  Every day new things were unearthed inside me.  Some good, some bad.  But none of them temperate.

But as this year comes to a close, I would like to say, My Dearest Camino, that I'm ready to get off the roller coaster for awhile.  You see, my back is a little tweaked from all the rocking, and I simply can't afford anymore tickets to ride.  The ups and downs of life keep it interesting, true, and when you go on the Camino, you're asking for a wild ride... a ride that doesn't end when the Cathedral of Santiago looms before you.  Yet, sometimes you've just had enough of the zigzags and free falls. 

My friend suggested that 2012 be deemed "The Year of Happiness," and I like that.  But for me, I'd like to deem my new year "The Year of Mellow Moderation."  Not only because I have a soft spot for alliteration, but because I'm ready to get off the roller coaster ride the Camino has sent me on, plant my feet and eat a funnel cake as I watch others laugh, cry, scream, barrel roll, corkscrew and twist their way to the end of the track.  And there I'll be waiting, to hand them a frozen lemonade and welcome them back to solid ground.

"Love In The Mud" Part 6 - A Camino Love Story

Leon dinner the night of the kiss(es). Red, myself and Hannes.

Ahhh, the first kiss...

My very first kiss of all time was also the worst.  Not only were my palms and pits sweaty, the guy kissed me like a snake; his tongue darting in and out of my mouth as if to catch flies.  I remember thinking to myself, 'Is this it?!  It can't be.  Had all those romantic movies lied to me?  Wasn't this supposed to be a pleasant past time?  Where were the stars and birds floating around his head?  The butterflies wreaking havoc in my stomach?  Who had let the Frog Prince into this fantasy?  Yuck!'  Needless to say, I've had both good and bad kisses since (I won't even get into the infamous 'Teeth Masher' of 2000).  But none as perfect and breathtakingly life-changing as the one on that little wooden bench under the stars by the river in Leon. 

Earlier that day the gang and I stopped into the cathedral to take a look at its stained glass windows.  Hannes had already been inside, so he told me to walk around and explore while he took a moment to sit and ponder.  Look, by this point in my travels I'd seen nearly 1,000 churches and had no longing desire to add another to the list.  I'd been to big ones, small ones, ornate ones, plain ones, ones hanging on cliffs and those nestled in the prairie.  There are as many styles of churches as there are kisses.  And frankly, once you've seen La Sagrada Familia are there really any other churches worth seeing? 

But the stained glass was gorgeous, as Hannes had promised, and that musty smell of aging stone always holds a certain intriguing air of mystery for me, so I went along with his plan and began to walk alone through its kaleidoscope passageways.  Secretly inside, however, I was wishing he would walk beside me.  I didn't know if this would be my last day with him, and I wanted to savor every second.  But clingy I would not be.  So I explored solo for as long as I could muster and then took a seat beside him.  We sat in silence staring up at the light pouring in through rose and moss colored glass.  It felt good to be near him.  Even in the quiet on ancient pews so hard they put my butt to sleep.

After a dinner with friends that evening (and a meal that sent Red into vegetarian hog heaven... is that an oxymoron?), my cousin once again led the rebellion to ditch Hannes and I while our backs were turned so that we could be alone together.  Earlier she had pulled me aside and confessed she'd politely commanded Hannes to kiss me.  He had told her that he was afraid to.  That it would only make separating harder.  'Great,' I thought.  'Over before it had begun.'  At dinner I had tried to read his body language.  He flirted, alright, but didn't attempt to hold my hand or brush a piece of hair from my face like a man in love.  Could I have read him all wrong?  As we walked later alone toward the river, I told myself, 'Ah what the hell?' and put my arm through his.  What did I have to lose?  As a pilgrim you leave your pride aside the first time you wash your girlie underwear in the sink next to a hairy Spaniard's dirty Euro banana hammock.  

As the stars began to peak through the dusky sky, Hannes and I sat on a stone bench by the water, laughing and pouring our hearts out.  I led the topic to dating, first kisses, love affairs...  I didn't know how else to be obvious!  For the love of St. Jacques, was he ever going to make a move?  That quote from "Clueless" kept running through my head: "I don't get it.  Did my hair get flat?  Did I stumble into some bad lighting?"

We moved later to a little wooden bench still next to the river but now in front of a children's sand box littered with lost toys and what was most likely dog crap.  Romance at its finest.  It was more guarded, though, from the wind, and I was starting to get chilly, so it would have to do.  I wondered how much longer I could hold out here in the cold.  I wanted to be with him.  To talk to him.  Make him laugh at my California witticisms.  Bond over our gypsy stories.  But how long could a girl wait?  A few times I even thought he was starting to lean in... but then he'd bend down to tie his shoe or flick a bug from my shoulder, and my heart would sigh a long forlorn sigh.  I almost threw in the towel completely when a cockroach scurried by my feet, but something told me, 'Stick with it just a bit longer.'

Come 2am, though, I had the sinking feeling that I, Blackheart, would have to be the one to make the move.  Dread sank in.  I had been a grimy pilgrim so long, I didn't know if I had it in me to play the breathless ingenue.  But I inhaled deeplly, gathered my courage and leapt.  "Hannes?  Do you think..."  I paused.  "Never mind."  I had choked.  I couldn't do it.  But curious, Hannes started prodding me to continue and eventually I tried again.  "Do you think you could kiss me?"  Oh lord, I sounded like some Twihard preteen (not knocking it - I read all four books in the series with gusto) and not the sexy, self-confident woman of the new millennium I thought myself to be at home.  I turned to face him.  Ready for Hannes to laugh or tell me exactly what he'd told my cousin hours earlier.  But no.  All I saw was a smile.  A sparkle.  A look that said, 'Thank goodness.'  "Yes," he told me, grinning ear to ear.

As he began to lean toward me, I was consumed with nerves.  Now, I'm an old kissing pro, and I don't mind telling you that I've been told on many an occasion that I'm top notch.  No, the fear was that we wouldn't be good kissers together.  You know what I mean.  A bad kiss with even the dreamiest of a partner can be a deal breaker.  I silently hoped it would be magic.  Or at least good enough to work with...  But it was more than I could have ever expected.  It was that one perfect kiss you get in a lifetime.  A kiss that sends chills down your spine and sets off fireworks in your stomach and a dull ache in your heart.  A kiss that makes all others fade away into forgotten mediocrity.  And that tells you, at last, here he is.  Your soul mate. 

We pulled away and looked at each other in astonishment.  I knew he was thinking and feeling exactly as I was.  We giggled like nerds at Comic-Con.  WHAT WAS THAT?!  We decided to give it another shot.  Test our luck.  And then another.  And another.  And by 4am with our lips chapped and throats dry and a creepy street cleaner watching us from afar as he sprayed the sidewalks, we decided it was time to part.  I felt like a teenager.  I hadn't made out with someone on a park bench... well, ever.  But I did remember that feeling when you were young and kissing was the coolest thing you'd ever experienced and you could do it for hours.  All night if you got the chance.  I just never thought I would feel that again.  Yet with Hannes everything was new.  Love was as it should be.  Innocent.  Vulnerable.  Full of promise.  And, well, totally hot!!!!

He walked me to my parador, now awash in the shadows of night like a sleeping giant.  The enormous courtyard was empty.  The massive doors shut tight.  The gargoyles on full alert.  I was a maiden in a fairy tale returned to her castle by the prince.  We hugged and said our goodbyes.  "We have to see each other again.  We don't have a choice now," he told me, my face cupped in his callused pilgrim hands.  "No choice," I agreed, watching the stars and birds circle around his head.  (I knew they existed!)  As he began to walk away, and I tried desperately to pry open the 2-ton parador door, we turned back around to catch one more glimpse of each other.  "You're amazing!" he yelled, unable to contain his happiness.  "You're amazing!" I cried back without missing a beat.  "Amazing!"  And I meant it.  'I'm going to marry this man,' I thought.  The girl who never ever in a million years wanted to get married is going to tie the knot one day with this amazing Belgian mud walker.  I couldn't believe the change in me.  What was this Camino up to? 

Even in the dark at a distance I could see his smile and hear his racing heartbeat.  Even in the dark I could see love walking away.

To be continued...

A Halloween Word of Warning

Last week I went to see "The Way", a film about the Camino, which had everyone talking on our trip, months before it was even released.  Pilgrims wondered whether it would be good for the Camino.  Was this movie a blessing or a - gasp! - curse?  Was an influx of people wanting to follow in the steps of Martin Sheen really what an already crowded trail needed?  Would the true meaning of the pilgrimage diminish?  Would the movie do the journey justice?  Could it capture that spark of magic?  The camaraderie?  What it truly means to leave it all behind?...

Personally, I thought it was a great filmic adventure.  Funny.  Entertaining.  Beautiful and nostalgic.  A lovely piece of storytelling.  But what the film doesn't address (and I don't blame it, as an extended epilogue is movie-suicide) is what becomes of you after the Camino.  So, as a gypsy writer who attempted to be as brutally honest with you readers as possible all along her pilgrimage, I will tell you exactly what the film left out.  A word of warning for any of you thinking of making the trip:

LIFE AS YOU KNOW IT WILL NEVER BE THE SAME.

You like how I used all-caps to emphasize the above's importance?  If I could I would have carved it in a pumpkin and taken a picture.  But I didn't.  As spooky as it sounds, this warning, however, holds true.  So if you are content with your life, if you have everything you need, if you like exactly how your days play out, then please I warn you do not walk the Camino.  Because when you come home and you look around you and step through your days as before, nothing will look the same.  Nothing will feel the same.  Nothing will be the same.  I know of pilgrims who upon return went into retirement.  Pilgrims who moved to new cities for a fresh start.  Pilgrims who stepped into new careers.  Who got out of relationships that weren't working.  Who planned new adventures.  Some of the crazier ones even decided to marry the handsome Belgian they met on the trail.  (Real whack job, that one.) 

A lot of this is to be celebrated.  But, let's be honest, suddenly realizing the person you were isn't the person you are now can be a frightening conclusion and undertaking.  The path isn't always so clear.  What do I do next?  Where do I go?  How do I get back that feeling of fulfillment and peace?  To keep on the Camino in your real life is not an easy journey.  It's as challenging at home as it was on the trail.  Only now there are no yellow arrows or red Xs to guide you.  Only your intuition and a foolish determination to keep walking.

I often find myself daydreaming.  Wishing myself back to that place.  Back to the cafes sipping my cafe con leche.  Back to typing away on my iPad in a bunk bed.  Back to dangling my feet over a river as mom handed me the bag of olives.  The Camino, my friends and future pilgrims, will haunt you.  My advice?  Let it.  Because it's a friendly ghost.  It's a reminder of the life we'd like to lead.  A reminder of the person the Camino turned us into.  There's a reason my mom has seen "The Way" four times and why I'll watch it again in Belgium snuggled in front of Hannes' laptop.  Because the film takes you back to that place, before you came home and realized the dream was over... and that it was time, and scarily so, to turn it into a reality.

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Happy Halloween my fellow gypsies... Don't let the bed bugs bite. Muahahahahaha!

"Love In The Mud" Part 5 - A Camino Love Story

The grand Parador de Leon.

The days leading up to Leon were anxiety producing.  The more Hannes and I texted, the more I wanted to see him again.  Wooing on the Camino is nothing like at home.  There's no car or Muni to quickly take you to see one another.  No "let's meet for coffee on my lunch break," or "how about a movie tonight?  I hear "Bridesmaids" is hilarious."  (A movie I wanted to see so badly on the trail!)  Hannes felt a million miles away, when in reality, there were only 24 kilometers of distance between us. 

Also, when on the trail, you have TOO MUCH TIME to think and daydream.  You start to second guess yourself or dramatize little moments that would normally seem entirely benign.  Okay, so when he said "I'm so happy to have met you" did he mean "because I could totally fall in love with you" or "because you're a really cool chick" or simply "because you made the endless, unchanging Meseta less tedious with your incessant talking"?  Did that look he gave me at dinner mean "I like you" or "you have a bit of parsley stuck between your two front teeth"?  It's excruciating, truly.  I felt like a teenager again.  If I'd had a notebook (too much weight in the backpack), I would be scribbling little hearts with 'H + T' with one hand propped under my chin and eyelashes batting like hummingbird wings. 

So you can imagine my glee when he texted me that he might be staying an extra day in Leon.  If I arrived early enough, we could spend a whole day together.  Of course, he used the word "might," which sent the teenager in me into angst-y tailspin, but nonetheless, I was hopeful.  Hope turned to happiness when he finally told me (after much teasing) that he was, in fact, staying.  Actually he put it something like "you never know.  I just might be there."  Ugh.  What was this guy trying to do to me?  But I knew, somehow, the Camino wasn't done writing our story yet.

In fact, the Camino decided to lend a hand in getting me to Leon early, giving me the opportunity to injure my foot on the way to the bathroom.  Yes, the bathroom.  My only injury on the trip occurred as I walked barefoot in my hotel room from the bed to the bathroom to grab a Kleenex.  This meant I was going by cab for a few days and would get me to Leon nice and early for our rendezvous.  "What was I going to wear?"... was not a question I had to worry about on our semi-date.  When you only have four items of clothing, the choice is easy.  You pick the one that stinks the least.  Black dress it is!

Nurse Red escorted me that day.  Leon would be the site of our Parador pampering - two days of 5 star luxury like no other.  As we pulled up in the taxi our eyes widened and our mouths dropped.  Could we really be staying here?  At Hogwarts?  The magnificent stone facade and towering double doors that led to the lobby looked as decadent as a chocolate mousse.  It was the start of a fairytale day and a fairytale love story.

After a few hours lounging in our rooms, Hannes called me from the lobby front desk (high security at Hogwarts), and I skipped out to meet him.  I wondered what I would feel seeing my Belgian mud walker again.  As I limped down the plushly carpeted hallway my stomach was in knots.  Then I saw him from a distance, seated in the lobby chatting with Juliano, looking as causally hunky as ever.  "Do not trip... do not trip...," I begged myself as I slowly limped down the stairs, gripping the banister to keep my balance.  He smiled when he saw me, and the knots tightened.  The boys followed me back to the room, admiring the life of luxury we ladies had embraced and simultaneously poking fun of us, the "parador princesses." 

In the room my mom popped open a bottle of Cava, and we toasted to reuniting with old trail friends. My foot was aching, but I fed them all a courageous lie of "It feels fine... almost totally healed," and Red, Hannes, J and I set off to explore Leon.  I'll save the juicy details of our "date" and subsequent first kiss/es for the next entry, but let's just say the night involved a seedy street cleaner with a staring problem, a cockroach, a moonlit park bench, a desperate search for water and two cries into the warm Spanish night breeze of "You're amazing!!!"  Yes, pilgrim love stories are not glamorous.  But they sure are entertaining.  And not for want of originality.

Until next time...

"Love In The Mud" Part 4 - A Camino Love Story

From Fromista I would like to skip ahead (in my dirty hiking boots) just a few kilometers to Carrion de los Condes.  Hannes and I didn't cross paths that day on the road, and the end result should have been a warning that walking with him really did bring good luck.  The Cali gang and I chose the shorter path along the freeway, as many did, and wound up with mouths full of gnats (oh, the gnats!) and screaming feet from walking at break neck speeds to get away from the winged plague.  I looked like a mad woman on the trail, swinging my poles wildly in a helpless attempt to ward them off.  Luckily, everyone was doing this crazy dance - an endless line of jerking, swatting and twitching hikers, which gave new meaning to the song "I Wave My Hair Back and Forth."  Hannes and Juliano had chosen wisely, walking leisurely and without bouts of epilepsy along the canal.

The sunny square in Carrion.

As I went through my usual routine in the hostel in Carrion, washing my gnat encrusted clothes in the sink (they had drowned in my sweat apparently) and massaging cream into my aching pups, I realized I actually missed Hannes that day.  His good humor.  His smile.  His chatter.  Our thinly veiled flirtations.  His accent (oh, the accent!)  Even Juliano's lessens to him on how to be a proper gentleman... All of it.  Just as I was wondering whether or not to text him, my beautiful new iPhone sang the loveliest tune.  He had texted me that he was in the square, which just so happened to be below our window.  I texted him to "look up," waving to him and his friends laying out in the afternoon sun, drinking beers and picking at a roasted chicken like the ravenous pilgrim animals we'd become.  He waved back, smiling and gesturing me to come down and join them.  Looking at him in his sleeveless t-shirt (if you need help picturing this, he's a lifeguard), I decided applying tea tree oil to my toe nails could wait...

The boys at the butcher.

A few minutes later I was sitting on the bench writing postcards to my girlfriends with lines like, "I am currently sitting across from a hot Belgian drinking San Miguel... jealous?"  Hannes made us all a grand pasta dinner that night (jealous?); about ten of us searching through the streets trying to find the right ingredients.  I looked at him across the table as we ate, and there was something in his eyes, a tiny gleam that told me he had been thinking of me that day, too. 

After dinner, Red talked everyone into ditching Hannes and I as we all strolled through town.  We looked behind us, and suddenly the crew had vanished like Spaniards during siesta.  I felt like a nervous high schooler - her friends trying to hook her up with the cute football player.  Only my football player was wearing a Quick Dry shirt and fanny pack, and this cheerleader was in a dress that she had now worn four consecutive nights with Euros tucked into her bra.  We kept walking despite their prank and sat on stone benches down by the river.  I got the sense mosquitoes were biting the hell out of me, but I didn't care.  Later, Red and I dropped the boys off at their convent dormitory, as the nuns had a strict pilgrim curfew of 10pm.  As I said goodbye to him through the gate, I couldn't help but think, "lucky nuns"... Definitely not a phrase that gets thrown around a lot.

We had decided that night that even though the boys were walking further than us the next day, we would meet in the morning for coffee and then walk together until our final farewell in some hellishly tiny village whose name I have purposely forgotten out of sheer post traumatic stress.  (Yes, I'm referring to the place where the urinals sat next to the sink - me brushing my teeth as a man peed beside me.)  It was a bitter sweet walk.  'So this is it...', I thought.  'The end.  Some good Facebook friends who you chat with time to time and that's it.' 

Once at the village, we cracked open a bottle of cheap wine and toasted to our time together over a picnic lunch.  (The infamous incident when Juliano, looking over at Red covered in and surrounded by crumbs with a huge hungry grin on her face, made the astute observation, "You eat like baby.")  In between bites of stale bread and olives, just when I had prepared myself to say 'so long' and suck it up, Hannes turned to me and said with those damn puppy dog eyes of his, "I'm so happy to have met you."  Like the chocolate bar I'd been carrying around in my backpack, I melted.  Because when he said it, you knew he meant it.  My cousin was so moved she even let out an "Ahhh," as if we were in the studio audience at a live "Full House" taping.  I smiled, made some awkward reply and realized that not seeing him again wasn't an option. 

The 'Adios' picture. Left to right: Juliano, Blackheart, Red, Hannes

We took pictures together, mumbled 'Buen Camino' and gave each other what Hannes said were not goodbyes but "see you later" hugs.  I hoped his words held truth.  Red and I watched the boys walk away down the road, their backpacks bumping along as their poles ticked away into the dusty earth and waved to them for what seemed like twenty minutes, like grandparents watching you pull away in the car.  I had no idea how we'd see each other again, but for now, texting would have to do.  "Did you get a text from your Camino boyfriend?" Red asked me with a sneaky smile later that evening over glasses of Four Roses bourbon.  I had.  About 10 of them since we parted ways.  I took it as a good sign of things to come.  Our conversations hadn't ended on the trail, after all.  They'd only just begun.

But no moment together on the Camino up to that point could have prepared Hannes and I for what happened days later in the city where my belief in magic was resurrected.  The city of the Hostel Pauper and Parador Princess.  The city of our first kiss.  My favorite city in Spain.  The city where we fell in love.  Leon...

To be continued...

Video - "Tenerife Pilot Whales"

A little video from my Camino love of our pilot whale watching experience in Tenerife (Canary Islands, Spain). About twenty whales surrounded our boat to say 'Hola'. My favorite moments, which aren't captured here, were when we glimpsed just their giant round heads poking out of the water like a bobbing for apples bucket.

Note: If you like reggae, turn it up.

Love in the Time of Cooties

Last Sunday I began to throw my life away.  Figuratively and literally.  Down an apartment trash shoot (and into a recycle bin, so don't call the green police) I dumped the contents of nearly my entire worldly existence - books, shoes, files, frames, letters from past loves, DVDs, paper towel rolls (hey, they cost money too), discolored photographs, yoga mat, even a toaster.  Luckily, Monday afternoon an entire new sparkling life came my way.  Not up a trash shoot but via Video Skype.  But more on that to come...  First, the deluge.

When I found out my apartment had a case of the bed bugs (let the screaming, itching and gagging begin), I went out of my freakin' mind.  Mainly because the final confirmation came only a handful of days before I left for Belgium.  I remember calling Hannes about 6am in the morning crying and insisting that if he didn't want me to come to visit I would understand.  I was the California plague, and I wasn't going to spread it abroad!  Thankfully he was in his right mind, unlike my panicking, sniffling, loathing self, and brushed the notion aside.  I was, however, going to buy all new luggage and have every stitch of clothing dry cleaned.  I wouldn't wish these devilish creatures on even my worst enemy, let alone my true love.

The worst part of this atrocity is that these creatures like to hide.  Even if you catch them early, as I did, you can never be sure one might be hitchhiking in your bedside alarm clock.  So as I pack up to move to San Francisco on the 1st, everything that can't be cooked in the newly purchased Cootie Cooker (not the copyrighted name), washed or dry cleaned must be tossed down the shoot or hauled away, including every last piece of furniture.  And let's face it, a cooker that takes nearly two hours per load means most stuff you say 'to hell with' and toss away.  I mean, what do you really need to get by?  If the Camino taught me anything (of which it actually taught quite a lot), it was that all you need can fit into a single stained and stinky backpack.

I won't lie, though; it's hard.  Saying goodbye to the old life in such a permanent way takes some guts.  When mom and I did the initial purging before I left for Belgium, we both - now keep in mind we were very unstable emotionally at this point as things were fresh - broke down in tears when we realized Bunny, whom I've had since I was five, had to be incinerated.  Bunny, you should know, is part of the family.  Twice my stepmother has made outfits for him when I was well into my 20s.  He even spent some time without me in Molokai enjoying the ocean view when dad asked for him to be shipped to his Hawaiian house to hang out.  I realize I'm making myself and my family sound crazy, but there you have it.  The end result is that mom and I couldn't bear the thought and tossed the rabbit (this is a stuffed animal I'm talking about, not a 25-year-old graying rabbit) into the hot wash with the rest of the danger zone clothing items and crossed our fingers he'd make it out alive.  My stepmom plans to make him a new outfit to cover the bald spots.

Yet, at the same time, getting rid of these things was freeing.  Every time I threw something away, I thought of Hannes leaving behind so much of his stuff to come to California to be with me.  If he could do it, so could I.  Sure we may end up with zero furniture and limited kitchen supplies (I asked him to spare his juicer), but slowly a new Ikea adorned life would eventually take shape.

Perhaps it was my acceptance (no matter how begrudging) of losing my old life that allowed the new one to knock on my virtual Skype door.  On Monday in my PJ's and glasses, my Camino love (in his bike jersey) gave a mischievous grin and invited me to a life of adventure, love, gypsy travel and lots of Belgian beer and waffles by becoming his wife.  As a girl who used to claim I would never marry, my exuberant 'Yes!' may come as a surprise.  But if you could have seen inside my heart and head the first time Hannes and I kissed on a bench by the river in Leon, you would know that this 'Yes!' appeared instantaneously and was already waiting there this Monday ready to be freed. 


At risk of sounding wise beyond my years (hehe), the beauty of living is that we are offered opportunities to reinvent ourselves all along the way.  Like the cat, nine lives are truly possible.  Living and embracing them all is simply a matter of being open to change and accepting the dualities of life... In my case, that true love in the form of a magical life-altering proposal, has come in the Time Of Cooties.  It wasn't just material things falling down that shoot, it was the girl who used to be.  The Camino changed me, and although I wish this newest lesson had come via something more mild mannered than bed bugs, like,say, a flood or armed robbery, I am so happy to be starting fresh with the man I met in the Meseta mud.  In the arms of Jay the Hauler went Ms. Gypsy.

Looking forward to meeting Mrs. Gypsy.  She may not have furniture but you can bet Sint Bernardus will be stocked in her fridge.

A Belgian Wedding

True love is busy. Ever since I stepped off the plane in Brussels, Hannes and I have been in a fervor of sightseeing, checking off a long list of must-dos in Belgium and Normandy. Hence, the utter lack of blogging. Rather than try to squeeze in all that's happened and all I've seen into one endless post, let's start at the beginning... the wedding of Hannes' mother Lieve and stepfather Frank.

As I write, Hannes is preparing me a signature Belgian side dish of mashed potatoes and spinach, so I can't take long (love is busy I tell ya!) before we leave for Gent to book his December flight to the US (and drink St. Bernardus and eat luikse waffles on the river.) The day I arrived we drove to the magical setting of the wedding to help set up decorations - a charming cafe/bar with open courtyard and converted barn. I cut tulle like a pro. I suspect, however, that we were more annoying than helpful, as we paused every 10 minutes to kiss like googly-eyed teenagers.

That night we feasted on a dinner of homemade Belgian stooverij at Lieve and Frank's spectacular house with its intoxicating garden dotted with apple trees and kittens chasing each other. We're talking a postcard property. Hannes' brother Brecht and girlfriend, Cynthia, joined in the pre-wedding festivities. We drank Duval by the outdoor fire pit after dinner - me wrapped in two blankets as supreme mosquito protection - and I felt like I belonged. Thanks to their hospitality and kindness, Belgium was quickly becoming a second home.


The following evening we awaited the surprised soon-to-be newlyweds, as they had no idea of the Indian theme of the wedding. Funny side note, EVERYONE was dressed in Indian garb except Hannes and I. Just what the sole American needs... to draw more attention to herself. Did get adorned in a bindi dot, though, which helped shave off a bit of the shame.

The rest of the night was filled with beauty, warmth, cold Duvall, spicy food, dancing, friendly conversation (some of which I actually understood!) and the repeated phrase said with a sly smile, "So you're the Compostela woman...?" News of our Camino Love had traveled fast. I hope these pictures taken on my iPhone and Hannes' Canon do it justice, as it's a night I'll never forget.








The courtyard nuptials.


The Bindi dot assortment.





We take turns passing around the sculpture of their united handprints, giving them our blessings.









Brecht and Cynthia.































The soul mates' first dance.


Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Stekene, Belgium

Off To See The Wizard

Today, as I set my passport on the Delta ticket counter, the attendant (is there an actual title for the people at the counter? Ticket clerk? Check-in person? Airline ID checker? Forgive me, I know not and do not have access to the Internet, as I'm flying somewhere above the great state of Georgia), asked me my final destination. A rather creepy way to put it, "final destination," considering the terrifying horror movie franchise the phrase conjures up, which I believe does include in some sequel a plane death. Moroseness aside, I smiled at her with my best 'I woke up at 3am' smile and answered, "Belgium."

I don't know what's gotten into me (of course I do; it's love!), but lately I can't help but say the next line to everyone I mention my trip to - the lady at the nail shop, the guy at the dry cleaners, the person handing my my Swan roll and seaweed salad to go. - "To see my boyfriend who lives there." It's funny how heavy with pride that line is delivered to friends or complete strangers. As if I'm now in some secret, elite international club of women with foreign boyfriends. If it was a real club our motto would be, "Just go with it,"... Or better yet, "Act now, ask questions later." We of the Foreign Boyfriend club take chances on love. And We charge everything, even that cup of frozen yogurt, on our airline mileage credit card. We also can't shut up about it apparently. Not so secretive after all.

The Bag Checker Attendant Clerk looked at me, her eyes first lighting up and then growing small and wistful, and said, "I wish I had a boyfriend in Belgium." I should have stopped there, but I opened my big braggart mouth once again and told her, thinking I was being amusing, "We met in Spain actually. Quite international." Yes, I used those exact words, which sound like nails on a chalkboard in retrospect but really was just meant as friendly conversation as she made squiggly pink marks on my boarding pass. "Wow," she said. "Even better. How wonderful. Some people are just lucky. That's the sort of thing I dream about."

I could tell at this point that there was a sort of sadness in the air, so I tried my best to cheer her up. "It was something I always dreamed about too. And finally it came true. It's not luck. You just have to keep focusing on what you want, and it will find you." Look, it was 4am. That's the best I could muster at that ungodly hour! Unfortunately, it didn't work. "I don't think it will happen for me. It's been a really bad year." Oh no. Why do I always get myself into deep conversations with strangers? I'm notorious for accidentally drawing out the life stories of helpline service agents - Comcast, AT&T, AAA, SMUD. I kid you not. I suppose some people are just so surprised to find a curious and genuine listener, they simply can't help themselves.

"I've had a terrible few weeks," I admitted to her. "But a whole year. That would be tough. I'm sorry." As I said it I was secretly asking the Camino to help her. If anyone deserved a "How Stella Got Her Groove Back" moment, it was this Delta worker. I can't imagine what it must feel like to be down in the dumps and to be forced to watch happy travelers excited for their adventures or eager to see loved ones rub it in your face day in and day out. "There was a death in the family this week," she said nearly in tears. Okay, now things were feeling a bit surreal. I would have jumped over the baggage scale to hug her, if I didn't think I'd be tasered in the process. All I could offer was my sympathy and a kind word.

Putting my boarding pass in my purse, she held out her hand to stop me. "Wait. Let me see those again." I gave them to her. "Here. I changed them so you don't have to show your passport again at the gate." She smiled. A little favor for someone who listened. I felt honored. As I walked to the security gate I thought to myself just how right she was. No matter how terrible and stressful my last few weeks have been, I am lucky. I have met the man of my dreams. The best friend anyone could possibly want. And here I was boarding a plane to spend two months by his side. Every day with him would be a privilege. And I wouldn't waste one damn second of it dwelling in the bad.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:The Sky

"Love In The Mud" Part 3 - His Story

[More from guest writer, Belgian and my Camino Love, Hannes Bral...]


The night in Castrogeriz,we walked the Californian ladies back to Tess’ place after dinner.  I had no clue whatsoever if she liked me or not.  But the first signal I presumed to be one of interest, I can still recall.  As we said goodbye and promised to meet up the next day, I noticed a change in her eyes.  She looked at me and said goodnight in a different way than before.  It was almost as if she wanted to make that moment last a bit longer.  But as cold-hearted as I still was at that time, I did not act on it.  Just said goodnight back, and the moment was gone.

Juliano and I walked back to our albergue, which was a great place.  It had a policy that no pilgrim could get up before 6am!  Which is a huge blessing.  No zipper sounds at 4am, no plastic bags opening and crinkling, no headlights blinding you as you half-open your sleepy eyes and think, 'Omg, yet another day ahead, pilgrim!

The following morning I woke up to Gregorian chants playing in the background.  The hospitalero, dressed in a monk costume, came wandering in the room with a lantern and in a friendly and gentle voice, woke up the entire dorm.  Everyone started laughing and applauding, as it was a very unusual but original way of waking up.  As it turned out, the hospitalero, who was a very kind man, had done the Camino a few times and wanted the pilgrims to feel at ease.

View from the top.

I lost track of time.  Hey, wasn’t I supposed to meet a gorgeous Caligirl that morning?  It was way past 7am already, so Juliano and I were late to meet them.  But I had the firm belief, somehow, that I would catch up as I had done before.  So we started our day of walking in the cold morning air.  That day had something magical about it.  The sky was so beautifully dramatic.  The rising sun had rays of light coming down as if the heavens were opening up (well, at least, that is how my grandma would describe the view, if she saw that sky).  It was breathtaking.

It was also quite a walk up the mountain.  My heart was beating like crazy, and it wasn’t because of Tess (not yet, that is.)  Speaking of Tess... Guess who was looking out over the valley at the top?  That same cute Caligirl with the lovely hat on.  My mood switched from being exhausted from the climb to sheer happiness upon seeing her!  My heart was still racing!  Normally, a heart slows down its rhythm once you take some rest... so how could this be? 

She had taken some strong medicine for her cold that day.  That I remember.  As we walked together again, we talked, shared, laughed, went ahead, stayed behind, waited for Juliano and Red...  But there was one thing striking to me: we could fill up all those moments talking, and I so much enjoyed her presence.  I felt at ease with her, and I was thinking to myself, ‘This Caligirl is kind of special.'  I really hadn’t met a girl like that before!

 
Upon arrival in the town of Fromista, we split up because Juliano and I had another albergue, while the girls were staying with their mothers in a hostal.  Juliano looked at his printed paper of sleeping options and decided on a private albergue.  A big contrast to the day before, actually.  

That night we met up for our second dinner together, and when I saw Tess, my heart felt like it skipped a little beat.  ‘Damn, I’m liking this girl’ I thought to myself...

"Love In The Mud" Part 3 - A Camino Love Story

Posing for a picture before dinner in Castrogeriz.

I went back to our little hotel that night in Castrogeriz, pondering what had transpired at dinner.  Could I actually like this guy after only one day of walking together and a simple French phrase uttered over a menu peregrino (which he kept shaking his head and laughing about, not believing a guide book could have a name as ridiculous as Miam Miam Dodo)?

A quick anecdote about the aforementioned hotel... When my mother asked the proprietor if we could have an extra blanket for the night (being Spring, all furnaces, we quickly realized as we put wool socks on to go to bed our first week of walking, had been temporarily shut down for the season), the man refused, telling her he would bet us 1000 Euros we wouldn't need it.  So as I lay in bed shivering myself to sleep, I couldn't help but look forward to the next day's walk.  We hadn't made solid plans to hike together again, but Hannes and Juliano had mumbled something in between goodnight hugs about trying to meet at 7am in front of Rick's albergue; although our Cali gang were notorious early risers, and the boys weren't so sure they could rise to the occasion.  Oh, and that 1000 Euros the proprietor bet my mom?  The blanket-hoarder never paid up.

As the Cali gang gathered in front of Rick's albergue the next morning, the boys were nowhere to be seen.  Normally, Rick was about 5 to 10 minutes late in joining the rest of us, which would have bought Hannes and Juliano some time to meet up, but low and behold Rick was right smack on time, waiting for us with a smile and a morning song (this one was about trekking poles I think?)  So I shuffled my feet around a bit and slowed my pace to see if perhaps that head of shaggy blond hair would appear from behind a stone corner, but alas, no mud-walker to be seen.  Red and I chatted away on the trail, instead, with me pretending total indifference... 'Oh they'll catch up maybe.  Whatever.  No biggie.  Was nice to meet them.  Great guys.  Yada yada yada blah blah blah.'  Blackheart was in full effect, spinning a web of lies a kilometer long.

Meanwhile, we had a huge mountain to climb, and my sick lungs were screaming in agony.  During one stop to catch my breath, I spied the Belgian/Portuguese duo below, a kilometer or so behind.  Sweat poured down my face in sheets, and I was breathing like a Sumo wrestler after running a 5k.  Oh no, he wasn't going to see me like this!  My treaded feet flew up the mountain, hoping to reach the top in time to put myself back together like a pilgrim Humpty Dumpty.  There I stood at the top (finally!), raising my hands to take a picture of the view below, when in reality I was lifting them up to dry my armpits in the icy morning breeze.  Have I confirmed to you my sex symbol status yet?  The pictures were beautiful though.  The sky over the distant hillside village below was gray except for rays of sunlight spilling over the top like a crown of gold.  Gorgeous.  (Hannes' came out the best, so will try to persuade him to share when he writes his version.)

A well-deserved 'top of the hill' snack.

Then, suddenly, there the boys were.  My sweat-stache had nearly dried up by that point, and my breathing had slowed to a somewhat normal state, so I made my way over, gave a casual hello (which was literally all my lungs could squeak out) and joined them for another day's walk.  And guess what?  Turns out this Belgian was even more amazing than I had first deduced.  You see, shortly before I left for the Camino, I had made a mental list of all the things I wanted in a partner and all the things I didn't.  Let's call it a 'Hit & Miss' compilation of every man I'd dated over the last 15 years.  Okay, let's say 25 years because there was that boy Davy in preschool who had really bad breath when he kissed me on the playground, and bad breath had definitely made the 'Miss' list from then on out.  (Sorry, Davy, if you're reading this.  You were young.  I'm sure your bad breath phase has since passed, as has my horridly frightful permed hair stage.)

As Hannes and I walked with Juliano and Red, I watched in amazement - 'stupefied' is really the term that best sums up my state of being - as Hannes checked off every last 'Hit' item on my list.  He was patient, sincere, had a great sense of humor, was spiritual but not strictly religious, friendly to anyone and everyone, adventurous, a movie lover (as a film major, that is a must) and had the same seize life with both hands gypsy heart I did.  The man even drove a Campervan!  A modern day gypsy caravan, which I already pictured myself riding in if I must admit.  And he adored his border collie, Luka, so my father and step-mom back home would love him.  If this was a "3 Stooges" movie I would be rubbing my eyes and blinking heavily as if to clear the hallucination before me.  A few more miles, and it became clear he also lacked the items in my 'Miss' list.  He didn't smoke.  Didn't drink much (although he assured me he could make a mean mojito - plus 2).  Wasn't lazy or judgemental.  Wasn't shallow - i.e. he liked women who were natural and curvy (seriously, he's an angel sent from heaven right?)

As we got closer to town, we sat and waited by a canal for Juliano and Red to catch up.  An hour later Red came whizzing by as if her butt was on fire.  A frantic Juliano then informed us that ticks had attacked her while she was using the bushes (note to future pilgrims: when choosing pee-estate, bushes are like long abandoned houses up for sale... you have no clue who or what has made themselves at home inside.)  And that's how I came to guard Red from onlookers under a highway overpass as she pulled down her pants to check for ticks... But that's another story.

Actually, this town of Fromista was ripe with good trail anecdotes, including the fact that as I lay down in bed to rest up for chores and dinner (yes, as a pilgrim you must rest in order to be able to complete the physical act of eating), I discovered the sheets were soaking wet!  The little old ladies who owned the joint had no idea what could have happened (the sheets and not the comforter!  Is that even possible?!), and gave my mom and I a huge room overlooking the main town plaza.  We decided in the future to spill water on the bed if our room was too small.  (If you have ever crammed yourself into a room the size of a coffin after walking 14 miles, you  understand how morality shifts ever so slightly in order for a pilgrim to survive.)

Red & I in our Juliet balconies in Fromista.

The boys had planned to meet up for dinner, once again, and as I leaned against my Juliet balcony purveying the pilgrims in the plane tree plaza below - writing postcards, sharing foot abnormalities, drinking cold Spanish beer - I spied Hannes in the distance with that kind smile of his, chatting away with fellow pilgrims, and I thought to myself, 'I guess Romeos really do exist.'

To be continued...

"Love In The Mud" Part I & 2 - His Story

 I set out on a quest in search of myself and ended up finding love...

[Part 1 and 2 by Hannes Bral]

As you are all now familiar with the story, I wanted to give you  a glimpse into my little Camino Love world.  And, please, pardon me for my English, as my native language is, in fact, Dutch...  Well, I should correct myself and say it's Flemish.

My story starts just before the Camino, as I had lost my way a bit.  I had all these different choices to make, a relationships gone bad, physical exhaustion from not having enough sleep, and so on.  But I got myself together, packed my bags, took vacation from work and set of on an adventure called the Camino de Santiago.  I was doing it no matter what anyone said!  My boss at work even told me, "If you don’t go, you 're not getting your vacation days back."  That was his way of making me do it, and what a way it was...  No turning back!

I remember someone even telling me, "Maybe you’ll meet a girl on the Camino."  That phrase raised my eyebrows a bit, and I kindly replied, "I’m not looking for love on the Camino; just me and myself walking."  

I wasn’t sure what lay ahead, but I was excited!

The first week of walking felt kind of like my birth on the Camino.  I had to learn all new skills and get used to the pain in my knees, hips and back, as they were not used to carrying the heavy backpack and walking for so long everyday.  What made it bearable were all the amazing people I met along the way.  People who kept me going, made me forget my physical discomforts and who even told me about a wondergel named Radio Salil - sounds like a Spanish radio station, but in fact, helped a lot.  I would use it just before I'd go to sleep; twisting in my sleeping bag and trying to rub it on without making any noises.  Albergues were already loud enough, filled with sounds of all kinds, especially symphonies of snoring.

I had days when I walked alone along desolate, beautiful nature trails, with sometimes not even a single soul present, except me and some birds making funny sounds as they flew by.  That gave me the opportunity to have some time to myself to reflect on my life as it had been up to that point.  [Side note: I’m also one of the ‘81 babies that will turn 30 this year!  Starting a new decade of adventures still to come...]  It did me good to have that ‘me time'.  There were even days on the trail when I didn’t take any time to think about that sort of stuff.  Instead, I just walked and enjoyed what was going on around me, or just the simple act of saying "Buen Camino" as someone passed by.

On one of my reflection days,  I had a strange thing happen to me.  I was thinking back on my love life so far and the question marks surrounding it.  Amazingly, out of that thinking I started having a conversation with my heart.  I know it sounds funny, and I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was digging really deep into that organ people sometimes just refer to as a muscle.  Yet, it is much more than that as I was about to discover.  I asked my heart what was wrong.  'Why didn’t I experience the love that I once felt?  Why didn’t I fall madly in love when I'd go on a date?  Was I getting too old for those sort of butterflies?  What was happening?' 

A revealing answer came, as the heart started opening up to me.  ‘You take the hurt of a lost relationship too personal,’ it said.  ‘You don’t allow yourself to feel that wonderful love again.  You put a wall up to protect yourself, so that nothing and no one can hurt you!  Instead, you should let it go.  Let love back into your life and start looking for the signs all around you.'  I would later discover what all this meant, but for now I thought to myself, 'Easier said than done.'  Though, in my head I had the firm belief that one day I would find what I was looking for.

After 20 days of walking, I wanted to give myself a treat, so rather than sleep poorly in another albergue packed with snoring pilgrims, I took a hotel.  I was in Burgos - an amazing city full of life, culture and spirit.  I loved it.  After a wonderful dinner with Camino friends and some nighttime walking trough the gorgeous moonlit city, I almost decided to take another day off.  I could sleep in and maybe visit the city some more...  But that morning, as I woke up late around 9am,  something in me said, ‘Why don’t you walk today?  Take it easy.  Like a rest day while walking?'  That thought would change my life as I knew it!

I set off on a lazy laid back hike to the village of Hornillos.  Walking at this point had already become like a routine for me.  Muscles on autopilot, and backpack light as a feather.  My Camino buddy Juliano and I walked into the village right before a thunderstorm hit.  As lightening and heavy rain filled the afternoon sky, we arrived at the albergue and got the last two beds in the main house.  This meant we were staying there for sure.

In the morning, I got up earlier than Juliano and decided to have breakfast and get an early head start on the day.  As I was quietly eating my already hard bocadillo - as a real pilgrim you sometimes take the food as it is presented to you, and I still had leftovers from the day before - I noticed two girls, Tess (your blog author) and Emily (otherwise known as Red), who I didn’t know yet, walk into the kitchen area.  That lovely girl with the hat on and the walking sticks already in her hands caught my eye.  But as a mantra playing in my head, I told myself, 'I'm not looking for love.  I'm not looking for love.'  Though, I have to admit, she looked interesting to me.

Not knowing I was going to meet her again, I set off on my walk.  As I was racing through the mud - Tess is right in saying we Belgians are used to walking through mud-infested tracks, as we have lots of rain in our little country - I passed by that girl with the hat, and she yelled "show off!" at me.  'Hmm, now it's getting interesting,' I thought to myself.  'Why is she saying that to me?'  She caught my attention right that very moment.  Something dormant inside me had been awoken.

So I decided to walk that day with Tess and Emily.  As Juliano caught up and joined us, he started walking with Emily, and I had time to get to know Tess a little better.  My big wall around my heart was still standing, so no feelings were allowed to pass through. Yet, it wasn't like a normal friendship between us, as we kept talking while walking that Meseta path.  I really liked her already.  Her voice.  Her humor.  Yes, it was even the first time a girl could make me laugh; that on its own was amazing to me.

Yet, the fear of falling for someone fast was still there, so it brought me back to reality.  My realist mind again said, 'Well, she’s American; you’re Belgian.  You’re both in Spain, so don’t get anything in your head, man!'  Keeping the facts in mind, I felt confident that there was no pressure to impress.  We started sharing our thoughts, dreams and experiences.  Talked about where our life was going, where we wanted it to go, what bad love stories had come before.  I mean, we shared it all.  As Tess put it, it was like two soul mates catching up with one another.  I started noticing that time flew by in her presence.  What normally takes about half a day walking. seemed only hours.

           

When we arrived in the next village, I didn’t want to say goodbye just yet.  It didn’t feel right after meeting someone that special!  So I insisted that we meet up for dinner.  Juliano and I left the California gang and got ourselves yet another snugly albergue, which wasn't even open upon our arrival.  Yet, it would turn out to be one of the best places we'd  stayed in on the entire trip. 

The dinner that night was also fantastic.  There was a good vibe in that cozy little restaurant... or was it something else?  Was it because of the company?  Had something changed in me?  I remember that night at the table, little sparks filling our eyes.  I had a different way of looking at Tess.  Something, indeed, had changed... 

To be continued...

"Love In The Mud" Part 2 - A Camino Love Story Continues

An soon-to-be muddy Meseta.

First, I want to say 'thank you' to everyone who has read this love story and told me to hurry up and finish it.  Now that's motivation!

So where were we?  Ah, yes, calling a complete stranger a show off.  You know how in the movies when a couple have their "cute meet" (i.e. their first run-in) and BAM! they stare longingly into one another's sparkly eyes, and you just know they're going to end up together?  Well, that didn't happen.  For one, my eyes were glazed over from the cold medicine, so even if a sparkle was happening, Hannes wasn't going to see it.  Secondly, it wasn't a look of love he shot my way, but a look of... keen interest.  One eyebrow raised in a sideways glance (a look I've come to adore... I know, gag!), he laughed a bit and then asked me what in the world I was talking about.  I explained to him my envy of his quick mud stride to which he replied, "Well that's because I'm Belgian." 

Okay, so all I knew of Belgium at this point was that they made some killer chocolate.  In fact, he was probably a good ally to make on the trail because he must have pralines tucked away in his backpack somewhere.  On the trail, chocolate is fuel.  And the fastest way to a pilgrim's heart.  (That and the offer of a foot massage, which no one does because our feet look about as appealing as THIS.)  So when he gave me that sphinx-like answer I was perplexed.  What does being Belgian have to do with it?  Do they have webbed feet?  Is mud wrestling a national sport?  The answer is, of course, much more obvious.  Turns out, they have more than their fair share of rain and mud, which over the coarse of three decades turned this cute shaggy blond with glasses and a kind smile into some kind of mud Wunderkind. 

The three of us began to talk, laughing about our disgusting situation, while Red and I desperately tried to keep up with him, following Hannes' every step ,which he assured us would get us through the muck alive.  He was our Meseta hero.  Twenty minutes later we met the fourth member of our soon-to-be pack, Juliano from Portugal.  [Note to my single lady friends: If you are looking to date a hot Portuguese man who loves the outdoors and traveling, with his own house and pool and who happens to be the purest gentleman I've ever met, then book a plane ticket, and I'll let him know you're on your way.]  For awhile the four of us chatted away in a cacophony of accents and broken English.  I'm not referring to Hannes, who speaks perfect English, but to myself, who had walked nearly two months without much talking and could no longer seem to form proper sentences... "Yes, I American.  Mom and me walk long time.  Not bad feet.  Cafe con leche por favor." 

A bit further along, after eating chocolate croissants together and sipping coffee in a tiny bar bursting to the brim with wet pilgrims - the floor sopping wet, two people sharing each bar stool - Hannes and I, in a fever of conversation, broke away from the pack and found ourselves passing through the now slightly less muddy Spanish plains alone.  At this point, I was so disgusting (muddy body, greasy face, dry nose, watering eyes, frizzy hair... I mean, a real sight) that flirting with him was the last thing on my mind.  There was no way this guy would take an interest in me, so why not put all my cards on the table?  The ex-boyfriend/s card.  The mouth like a sailor card.  The worst dates of my life card.  The sarcastic, cynical, crass sense of humor card.  The big dreams card.  The failures card...  I mean, it was ALL out there, trailing through the mud right along with us.  And with every card I put down, Hannes sent his own flying onto the table.  'Oh yeah, you're going to be totally honest and open?  Well take that!'

Never had I shared like this with someone I'd known only a few hours.  Maybe I had never shared like this with anyone, in fact.  Sure, you tell people you just met the pretty stuff, but not the grizzled, haggard, soggy, stinky, expired stuff.  Not unless you're at some self help meeting.  Yet, here I was, dishing out the good with the bad and listening to his own cornucopia of ups and downs, as if we were long lost friends and really had some catching up to do.  Most importantly, the man laughed at my jokes.  +2 points.

Later when Juliano and Red caught up with us, and by that I mean Hannes and I waited by the side of the road for an hour (sorry, Red, it's true!), Juliano was shocked to see that Hannes had allowed me to walk inside the road, rather than protecting me by having me walk curbside.  Frankly, I could care less but quite enjoyed watching Hannes squirm, trying to fish for an excuse.  "But women in Belgium don't expect that!"  Or how about this delightful quip, "Well, I do that for my dog!"  Oh.  So now I had been relegated to less important than his dog.  -1 points.  Only -1 because I was already somewhat used to this situation, seeing as though my dad has barely a picture of me in his house, while my "dog sisters," as he calls them, can be found prominently displayed in about twenty frames.

Once we got into the village and found mom, who had taken a taxi to catch up with us since in true Spanish bus fashion, they decided not to come that day (why drive today when you can drive tomorrow?!), Hannes made sure to make proper dinner plans with us.  That, after helping us find a place to stay for the night when the first albergue was full and Lizzie was beginning her "hotel with private bathroom" chant.  Hmmm, maybe this mud walker was a gentleman after all?  Yet, still I was looking only through friendship eyes.  Sure he was cute.  And funny.  And sincere.  And lord those arms were nice... really nice.  But romances don't start in the Meseta mud.  Okay, so before dinner I did bust out my miniature perfume and mascara that my friend Jeffrey at Chanel had given me in case of an emergency, but that didn't mean anything... Did it?

That night at the dinner table, though, things changed.  A complete 180 of my perception.  My romcom BAM! moment, sparkly eyes and all.  'Why?', you ask (I hate to assume you did, but go with it...)  Did he recite poetry?  Shower me in compliments?  Admit he was royalty?  Reach across the table for my hand?  Tuck a flower behind my ear and plant a magical kiss on my cheek?  Um, no.  Although those all sound like lovely gestures.  And he did reveal to me a lot of amazing qualities that night: his intelligence, patience, kindness, depth, lighthearted spirit.  Yet all these things didn't have the same life-altering power of three solitary words.  Three words in a breezy French accent that made my heart beat fast and my palms sweat and my blackheart say to me, "Damn, girl!" 'Those words?' you ask (there I go speaking for you again). 

"Miam miam dodo."

Yup, the three words that make up the title of our French Camino guidebook.  Yup, three words that sound like a child's cartoon or the name of a muppet.  Yup, three words that are the opposite of sexy, even in French.  Yup, three words that translate to "Yum yum nighty night."  There's no accounting for taste.  Who knows why they had such an effect on me, but there in that moment this Caligirl, as he came to call me, was a goner.  The Camino path had shifted and led me to him... the one.

To be continued...

"Love In The Mud" Part I - A Camino Love Story

When I told my mother the title for my multi-part Camino love story, "Love In the Mud," she replied back sassily, "Sounds like the less graphic version of The Beatles' Why Don't We Do It In The Road."  Humor, I guess, runs in the family.

But I can't think of a more fitting title.  The day my Camino Love, Hannes, and I met I was sick as a dog.  The Meseta plains of Spain had been drenched in a thunder/hail/lightening storm the night before, and my cousin and I were foot deep in the thickest mud you could possibly image.  In fact, do try to imagine it, and then multiply that by three.  With each step, our boots grew exponentially in size, the sludge clinging 360-degrees around our Lowas, adding much unwanted weight to our already loaded down bodies.  But before I get to the moment I saw my Belgian frolicking through the mud like it was a polyurethane running track, I should give you some back story...

Two nights prior I had experienced my first Camino breakdown (okay, it wasn't my first, but it was the most significant, as I don't count those that involve an inability to log onto wifi or learning there was an extra 3km to walk to get to our gite.)  What I mean by "breakdown" is I cried.  Like a baby.  Or like a blithering idiot depending on your perspective.  Perhaps I had been listening to too much Adele... but I sat in my hotel room, mom already asleep, thinking about my failed long-term relationships and wondering if I simply wasn't special enough to be loved for a lifetime.  I know.  Pathetic.  And sooo un-Blackheart of me.  But the Camino does that to you.  Brings your deepest, darkest thoughts and fears to the surface and forces you to finally schedule a meeting with them face-to-face.  So there I was in the boardroom of my subconscious, and boy did things look bleak.  

The following morning I woke up with eyes bloated to the size of baseballs and my body in the flux of a cold from HELL.  Mom was feeling tired herself and decided to stay in Burgos another day.  Burgos, my favorite and most beloved city thus far on the entire trip (click here to find out why).  She asked me if I wanted to stay behind with her.  Enjoy another night in our 4-star accommodations.  Eat bakery goodies all day in bed.  Watch the BBC.  And try to shake my cold before it got worse.  I was tempted.  Oh man, I really was.  But as I told mom that morning, there was something compelling me to keep walking.  I just had to be on the Camino the next few days.  I thought it was because I needed to work stuff out.  Maybe knock my cold out like a true pilgrim soldier.  But the Camino, in true Camino style, had other more life-changing plans in store.


So with Sactown Rick, Liz and Red as my trail companions, we set off for the village of Hornillos, planning to meet mom in two days time.  As we began to walk, I felt like I could make it.  There were a lot of miles ahead, but my body, even sick, was strong from the months of walking that had come before.  That was my sentiment until the mugginess of the day hit me like a brick.  Then the mist.  Then my inability to breath.  The exhaustion.  The negative thinking.  The lack of pee-estate (real estate to politely excuse yourself to... ahem... pee - i.e. bushes, boulders, thick patch of trees, abandoned sheep shelters.)  I knew that if things kept on this way, I would end up crawling into the fetal position in a patch of tic-infested grass and never get up again.  


That's when I decided to do a mantra, and that I would repeat this mantra of positivity with every step until I got to the albergue.  The mantra?  Well, it's a rather embarrassing one to admit and as cheesy as ballpark nachos, but in the spirit of honesty that is this blog, I will share it with you all and open myself wide up for ridicule.  Here it is... "I am lovable.  I am love.  True love will come."  Simple.  Easy to remember.  Covers all the bases.  It would do.  

Now, up until this point, love hadn't really been on my mind for the most part.  Plenty else had - my career, my future, my screenwriting, where I should move, what person I wanted to be, what person I already was.  I suppose it took walking in the hot mist with a fever and sore throat to make me think of romance.  An odd correlation, true, but that's what happened.  The mantra took hold, lightened my load and soon enough I was in Hornillos, being escorted by a rather unpleasant young woman to the "overflow" albergue (which, turns out, was better than the "overflow-overflow" albergue that consisted of throwing stained, soppy mattresses under the church's stone overhang.)  


I slept 13 hours that night, snuggled in my upper bunk, a bearded French man beneath me snoring away, my skin wreaking of the tea tree oil I has smothered on myself like the finest body cream.  The next morning I felt well-rested, but nowhere near cured, which explains that when a little voice told me upon seeing Hannes at the breakfast table in the albergue's kitchen that "he could be The One," I took it to be a lingering after effect of the very intense Spanish cold medicine I had taken the night before.  Besides, I wasn't a romantic.  I'm Blackheart.  Sure, I love "Under the Tuscan Sun" and "Eat Pray Love" as much as the next woman, but Diane Lane and Julia Roberts I am not (yes, I know these were books first, but I'm a film major, so cut me some slack.)  A fairytale vacation romance sounds lovely, but when you're wearing the same dingy clothes every day and your body is slowly falling apart at the seams, you don't give it much credence.

Besides, I hadn't even said as much as 'hello' to this guy.  Not to mention, he looked waaaay too young for me (turns out we're both '81 babies... good genes that boy has.)  So when he gave me a tired smile and said cheerily, "Buen Camino" I think all I mustered out was a gargled "igualmente" (or "same to you") and a half-ass grin before throwing on the old ball and chain (my Gregory backpack) and walking out the door.  "He could be The One"... ha!  What a Looney Tune my subconscious had become.


Yet, it must have been that same crazy little voice, when an hour later I saw Hannes skipping past Emily and I as we trudged through the mud, that made me take a chance and yell out abrasively to him... "Show off!"


To be continued...