St. Jean Pied de Port
So, we arrive in the early morning, around 9am. It´s cool, cloudy, misty, very damp and humid. I am about to experience something that happens to people who live in dry climates when they go into damp climates--projectile sweating. As I step off the train and begin to follow the other people who have come to the same place for the same purpose, I am aware that every pore in my body is attempting to rid itself of excess moisture at a great rate. I suppose this happens all the time, but since I normally live in a very dry climate, it just evaporates into the air, and I don´t notice. Nothing evaporates here. Everything is saturated with moisture. It´s not really raining, but it might as well be, as moisture is seeping out of everything, including me. I´m not really sure where to go, but since most of the pilgrim type folks are walking in one direction, I decide to follow them. I end up walking with a young man who might be German or Polish, and we chat for a moment until we turn left to get up to the Pilgrim´s Office. Then I realize I am on a very narrow street in a very small village that goes almost vertically up. Seriously, if they attached ladders to the streets, it would be easier to walk up them. I feel the stirrings of nervousness, but think, well, it can´t all be like this, right?
In the pilgrim´s office, there is a room full of backpacks in the back, and a number of folks milling around. I take my pack off, and sit in front of the next agent, a lovely woman from Canada who speaks French and English. I have my pilgrim´s passport from the American Friends of the Way, but on the spur of the moment, decide to take the passport from this office. She takes my ¨real¨passport, puts in the information, and gives me my first sello (stamp). I am now an official pilgrim!
Then, she gives me several sheets of paper about the first stage of the way, which is from St. Jean to Roncesvalles, Spain. She asks if I´m leaving today. I say, no, I want to acclimate for 1 day and leave tomorrow. Will I go to Roncesvalles? That´s 27 kilometers, or about 14 miles. No, I doubt it, I say. OKay, there are 2 places, Huntto, 6 k up the road, or Orisson, which is 8 k. But Orisson is very popular and she knows it´s full tonight. I ask her to try for that, and if it´s full, we´ll try Huntto. I´m sure I can make 8 K on the first day. She tries Orisson once, but no answer, and then, miraculously, on the 2nd try they answer and they do have a place for tomorrow night. I´m a pilgrim and I have a reservation in my 1st albergue! This must be making up for the missed train on the day before, I think. After that, she reveiws the map with me, tells me where the pilgrim´s refuge is, and also where there are some private ones that might let me in earlier than 4 pm. Most places don´t let the pilgrims in before then, and you have to be out by 8 or 8:30 the next morning. Really, the albergues are just places to eat and sleep, but for less than 15 Euros a night, it´s a bargain.
After I leave the office, I head up (and I mean UP) the cobbled street to find the pilgrim´s refuge. I walk a little bit and become aware of, once again, the sweat popping out of me at an alarming rate, and also that I´m actually panting. I turn around and look back, and nearly fall down the hill. The grade is that steep. Really, if you´re not used to it, it´s scary. So, I turn around and keep walking up. I go through the old gate, and the refuge is there on the left. It´s no open, and I decide to try one of the private ones. The Esprit de Chemin is recommended, and it´s right across from the Pilgrim´s office, so I go there, but they are full. Next door is another place, the Chant du Cock. Well, for those of you who knew my mother, anything concerning a chicken has got to be all right. The door is open so I walk into a very narrow hallway with a bench, and some boots underneath, but no one is there. As I turn around, carefully, because I am wearing my pack, a small, quick, dark, nervous, birdlike woman is behind me. Apparently, this is her house and yes, she does have a place upstairs for 10 euros for the night. In broken French and sign language, I ask if I can see it. Yes, but I must take off my shoes. Okay. The room is fine, small, with places for 7, 3 bunk beds and one smaller trundle bed. I tell her I´ll take it, and is it all right if I leave my things and come and go? Yes, but no shoes upstairs, no shoes in the bathroom, no wet clothes in the room, no one in the kitchen before 7am, etc. That´s all fine, and having had experience with hostels, I immediately claim a bottom bunk, and I am set. I leave the pack, thankfully, as it is becoming heavier with each passing moment, and go off again to look around.
I go in the other direction, down the street, and at the bottom of the hill is the old Basque church on the left. I go in. Even though I am not a member of any Christian church, nor ever will be, I love going into old churches and cathedrals. Perhaps it´s because so many of them are built on ancient springs or sacred sites to the old dieties that the sacredness literally seeps into the stones. Perhaps it´s the architecture that allows the sound of the simple human voice to soar upward into something divine and heavenly. Or perhaps it´s just the years and years of prayers and energy that generations of churchgoers and other seekers have imbued into the stones. I don´t know. But entering this church, I am awed and humbled. As cathedrals go, it´s small and rather dark. But I see the pictures, the stories written both in Spanish and Basque, and at the altar, the fronticepice is a beautiful tiled recreation of all the animals filing into Noah´s ark, two by two. There is no crucifix, which I find interesting, but there is a very strong feeling of peace and power. For the first time, but certainly not the last, I find myself in tears. I sit for a while to regroup, and then move out again into the town.
There are tourists about, pilgrims going back and forth, children, and the usual bustle of daily business in any place. The pilgrims you can always tell by the clothes, the backpacks (for those leaving), or the fact that they´re limping or wearing openbacked sandals to let their blisters air out. I feel completely at home. I decide to have lunch, and find a place that probably a bit more touristy than some, but there´s a big patio outside, and it´s too nice to be indoors, so I go in. I sit down and order and a bit later, see a woman who I´d met in the office walk by. The airlines had lost her backpack, and she was waiting for them to deliver it. I flag her down, and she asks if she can join me. Again, this is just the first of many such continuing encounters I will have along this road. We have a nice lunch, and then we part, she to find someone to, hopefully, fix a strap that has been ripped off her pack, and me to go back to the room and get myself squared away for the long haul tomorrow, and to see who has joined me in the room.
More as time permits....
Crone
In the pilgrim´s office, there is a room full of backpacks in the back, and a number of folks milling around. I take my pack off, and sit in front of the next agent, a lovely woman from Canada who speaks French and English. I have my pilgrim´s passport from the American Friends of the Way, but on the spur of the moment, decide to take the passport from this office. She takes my ¨real¨passport, puts in the information, and gives me my first sello (stamp). I am now an official pilgrim!
Then, she gives me several sheets of paper about the first stage of the way, which is from St. Jean to Roncesvalles, Spain. She asks if I´m leaving today. I say, no, I want to acclimate for 1 day and leave tomorrow. Will I go to Roncesvalles? That´s 27 kilometers, or about 14 miles. No, I doubt it, I say. OKay, there are 2 places, Huntto, 6 k up the road, or Orisson, which is 8 k. But Orisson is very popular and she knows it´s full tonight. I ask her to try for that, and if it´s full, we´ll try Huntto. I´m sure I can make 8 K on the first day. She tries Orisson once, but no answer, and then, miraculously, on the 2nd try they answer and they do have a place for tomorrow night. I´m a pilgrim and I have a reservation in my 1st albergue! This must be making up for the missed train on the day before, I think. After that, she reveiws the map with me, tells me where the pilgrim´s refuge is, and also where there are some private ones that might let me in earlier than 4 pm. Most places don´t let the pilgrims in before then, and you have to be out by 8 or 8:30 the next morning. Really, the albergues are just places to eat and sleep, but for less than 15 Euros a night, it´s a bargain.
After I leave the office, I head up (and I mean UP) the cobbled street to find the pilgrim´s refuge. I walk a little bit and become aware of, once again, the sweat popping out of me at an alarming rate, and also that I´m actually panting. I turn around and look back, and nearly fall down the hill. The grade is that steep. Really, if you´re not used to it, it´s scary. So, I turn around and keep walking up. I go through the old gate, and the refuge is there on the left. It´s no open, and I decide to try one of the private ones. The Esprit de Chemin is recommended, and it´s right across from the Pilgrim´s office, so I go there, but they are full. Next door is another place, the Chant du Cock. Well, for those of you who knew my mother, anything concerning a chicken has got to be all right. The door is open so I walk into a very narrow hallway with a bench, and some boots underneath, but no one is there. As I turn around, carefully, because I am wearing my pack, a small, quick, dark, nervous, birdlike woman is behind me. Apparently, this is her house and yes, she does have a place upstairs for 10 euros for the night. In broken French and sign language, I ask if I can see it. Yes, but I must take off my shoes. Okay. The room is fine, small, with places for 7, 3 bunk beds and one smaller trundle bed. I tell her I´ll take it, and is it all right if I leave my things and come and go? Yes, but no shoes upstairs, no shoes in the bathroom, no wet clothes in the room, no one in the kitchen before 7am, etc. That´s all fine, and having had experience with hostels, I immediately claim a bottom bunk, and I am set. I leave the pack, thankfully, as it is becoming heavier with each passing moment, and go off again to look around.
I go in the other direction, down the street, and at the bottom of the hill is the old Basque church on the left. I go in. Even though I am not a member of any Christian church, nor ever will be, I love going into old churches and cathedrals. Perhaps it´s because so many of them are built on ancient springs or sacred sites to the old dieties that the sacredness literally seeps into the stones. Perhaps it´s the architecture that allows the sound of the simple human voice to soar upward into something divine and heavenly. Or perhaps it´s just the years and years of prayers and energy that generations of churchgoers and other seekers have imbued into the stones. I don´t know. But entering this church, I am awed and humbled. As cathedrals go, it´s small and rather dark. But I see the pictures, the stories written both in Spanish and Basque, and at the altar, the fronticepice is a beautiful tiled recreation of all the animals filing into Noah´s ark, two by two. There is no crucifix, which I find interesting, but there is a very strong feeling of peace and power. For the first time, but certainly not the last, I find myself in tears. I sit for a while to regroup, and then move out again into the town.
There are tourists about, pilgrims going back and forth, children, and the usual bustle of daily business in any place. The pilgrims you can always tell by the clothes, the backpacks (for those leaving), or the fact that they´re limping or wearing openbacked sandals to let their blisters air out. I feel completely at home. I decide to have lunch, and find a place that probably a bit more touristy than some, but there´s a big patio outside, and it´s too nice to be indoors, so I go in. I sit down and order and a bit later, see a woman who I´d met in the office walk by. The airlines had lost her backpack, and she was waiting for them to deliver it. I flag her down, and she asks if she can join me. Again, this is just the first of many such continuing encounters I will have along this road. We have a nice lunch, and then we part, she to find someone to, hopefully, fix a strap that has been ripped off her pack, and me to go back to the room and get myself squared away for the long haul tomorrow, and to see who has joined me in the room.
More as time permits....
Crone
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