About Last Night (Train)

I don’t believe I have written much on train travel within Europe, mostly because it has been rather uneventful. The landscape has been gorgeous, of course, but the length of the ride is surprisingly long (compared with the much faster, cheaper train systems in China) with few interactions or conversations worth mentioning.

Until last night, that is.

Coming off a full day of exploring Lisbon after staying up far too late the night before, I should have been ready for bed (or cot, more appropriately) as I boarded the sleeper train for Madrid, with just under 10 hours journey ahead. With all this, a 9:30pm start was apparently my wake up call, because my social energy went into another stratosphere as soon as I set my backpack down. Reverting to my inner 6 year-old, I immediately went up and down the carriages, poking my head into rooms and chatting with whoever I found settling in. Everything received ten times the adoration it deserved: four beds in a cramped room a solid three inches shorter than my body? Cool! Old, faded green curtains reminiscent of a bad 70’s sitcom? That’s tight!

Four the next four hours, I was a kid again (albeit a grizzled one). Everything was a big freaking deal and deserved my complete attention, each passenger became the Most Interesting Person in the World. I met the nicest family in the dining car and they shared some of their pork with me, no doubt freshly zapped on board the finest microwave Renfé’s kitchen could offer. Delicious. I invited about 10 people to the shoddy-looking bar on board. They all came. We had fun and all had really bad Spanish beer.

See, I miss these moments. In college, every Friday night was a chance to meet someone new and say something weird just to see if they’d laugh. Now, hostels (and, apparently, night rail trips) are my outlet when traveling. Meeting new people is what I do best, and sometimes I forget the benefit of this very fun skill. I’ve decided nights like this need to happen more often, so for the rest of my trip, I’m going to be spending a lot of my rail time at night.

Joy in Portugal, and Adventures in Facial Hair

If Spain was an unexpected beauty to behold, Portugal has been an unexpected joy, a last-minute decision to join friends made on the Camino that became the perfect place to detox from walking 40 miles a day or whatever it was. Give or take.

I understand every city, every neighborhood, and every house is complicated and defies sweeping generalization, but the spirit and energy I have been exposed to in Portugal is unmatched by any other country I have visited in my short life. People are bright, friendly, quick to laugh, an air of infectious passion I could not help but welcome as a tired and disheveled stranger in their homeland.

Their economy is, in a few words, not good. People my age work multiple jobs simply to get by. There is precious little youth and too many elders for reasons I found unclear. Yet amidst it, I couldn’t help but feel loved. Lisbon and Porto matched my personality in so many ways it was downright eerie. Perhaps it’s the fact this country just hosted a major football final, or because the weather turned nice. Either way, I am sad to leave it and the multitude of delicious things it offered. Until next time, Portugal.

Lisbon Nom Nom

There is a place in Lisbon. A wonderful, newly-opened food market where (so far) only the locals go and splurge on some of the best dishes prepared exclusively by area chefs. It is incredible. Initially, words failed me the night I entered. But now I have plenty of words!

Some background info: I really only happened to find this market by having the presence of mind to ask the staff at the hostel for dinner recommendations. It is an entirely new concept for the city and looks to be an incredible success so far, judging by the number of people who showed up. Almost immediately, we began to jockey for seats and sent someone to scout out menus and report back with pictures and recommendations. Amidst a blur of languages from all over Europe and beyond, others next to us were doing the same. It was like a land rush, the reward a few stools at a few long wooden tables and some quality chow time.

Simply walking past a stall was impossible, as each required careful consideration of the menu accompanied by a copious amount of drooling. This took time, but I was in no rush to leave. In fact, it took a full hour to order our first dishes, taking into consideration the importance of some pre-dinner wine. But the main show proved to be worth the hype. I don’t have a ton of photos, but this is understandable considering I was too busy eating to think about such a silly thing.

I ordered a blackened pork sandwich with garlic aioli and a couscous salad topped with glazed carrots and ricotta cheese (pictures below). In a word, yum. As for my friends from Québec–they have an excellent taste in food–one dined on baked cod served au gratin (also yum), the other an outstanding burger topped with grilled onions and all the good stuff. Dessert? Peanut butter gelato, having a lighter taste and consistency comparable to mousse, only in a cone. Cold and delicious.

Oh, and then we got some Pad Thai, because second dinner is a real thing and is totally justifiable when you only have a few days in a foreign city. This too, was good. It’s all good. I immediately went home and booked an extra night at my hostel, because duh!

Porto, and Final Camino Thoughts (no promises though)

I view the Camino as a separate trip entirely from the rest of my travels in Europe, and I hope there is some wisdom in doing so. As with any significant life experience, I would prefer to lessen the inevitable letdown which can sometimes follow, though the sheer exhaustion I have felt emotionally and physically in the days since tells me there is little use in doing so. What the Camino does to the body is pretty crazy, and even the best preparation does not guarantee a pain-free experience. Two people I am traveling with in Portugal, a week removed from the walk, are still dealing with some chronic pain, tendinitis and such, but are still very happy.

Currently, I am in a city called Porto, a fairly common destination for perigrinos after finishing in Santiago, only three hours north. It is an easygoing city with a pretty incredible river walk filled with inexpensive (but very good) eats all over town. As a benefit of being one of the chief producers of port wine, it is extremely easy to fit in a few wine tours while walking around. The city itself is set upon a hill on both sides–not necessarily a break for the legs after walking 400 kilometers or so–but offers amazing views as a reward. My Portuguese is even worse than my Spanish, but there seems to be a higher tolerance for my bumbling here than in Spain.

On the 4% of Life

Perhaps I haven’t found myself in Spain (I wasn’t really trying, to my knowledge), but I’ve made a pretty big realization.

Living and traveling overseas has accounted for roughly 4% of my life. I’ve seen like .01% of the world over this period of time, yet I have been content to let this be the dominant label of how I have defined myself for the past three or so years, which is totally my bad and a misguided attempt to be Very Interesting and Awesome to people I meet.

I’ve walked quite a distance over the past few weeks and hadn’t really come up with anything earth shattering until a day before I finished, so here it is: I am not defined by where I’ve been, or what weird food I’ve eaten, but rather the place I call home. Where I’ve grown up. How my relationship with God–not how many countries I’ve visited–has completely changed my life and continues to do so. Family, friends, mentors, coworkers, teachers: these are the people who help shape me, make me better than I could possibly be on my own. I am a product of these wonderful people and a weird place called Oregon and a God who loves me an unbelievable amount. The 4% is a footnote within a much bigger story.

Look, I am SO thankful for the opportunities I’ve been given, to be overseas and meet amazing people and do some pretty cool stuff. Traveling is an education and a passion I hope to always be pursuing throughout my life. But to go so far as to place so much of my self worth in it is folly. To use it as a means of proving my usefulness as a friend or as a potential employee or whatever is misguided at best, devastating at worst. Who defines themselves by 4% of their life anyway? It’s like picking out the carrots in an amazing and elaborately prepared stew and saying, “Hey, look at these carrots!” as if the freaking carrots are what make the stew so amazing. As if anyone would even notice their absence in the first place (I know, I’m really pushing this food analogy. It’s kind of my thing.)

I’m still learning to give credit where it is due. To be humble. To walk slow. To listen instead of speak. To appreciate the entire thing instead of selectively picking out the stuff that looks or sounds good.

Anyway, to my family, friends, Oregon: I love you. Keep being you. I’ll be home soon.

End of the World, Ma!

I’ll write more later, but I’m going to bed for now. Walking 390 kilometers takes a bit out of me.

Best Lunch Ever, and an Extended Walk

Lunch on the Camino isn’t really a thing.

If you have a 30 kilometer walk ahead of you, at best you will have a coffee and piece of white toast (apparently they do not believe in wheat bread here) in the morning at 7:30, second breakfast at 10:00 or so (a wonderful Spanish tradition I fully intend to bring back with me), and perhaps a quick stop to choke down a bocadillo (Spain’s dry, unimaginative sandwiches are by far my least favorite cuisine on this trip) before arriving at the albergue in the early to late afternoon. With how crowded the route becomes the last 100km due to Spaniards joining the fray, there is precious little time to spare in the rush to find a satisfactory bed for the night. Lunch is left by the wayside on the Camino…until the walk after Santiago, that is.

This morning I woke up in Santiago and fully intended to go back to Madrid to relax and plot my next move. I then looked outside and it was a beautiful morning for a walk, so I got my things together and continued onward towards the coast, a good 90 kilometers away. What can I say? This lifestyle is addicting, and good exercise at the very least. As an added bonus, the trail becomes much less crowded and so the walk is in turn more leisurely and thus provides more time for rare privileges like lunch.

As soon as my friend and I stepped into the restaurant, I knew it was going to be good. For the most part, these places in Spain tend to look incredibly similar, offering most of the same options from place to place with a bar running through it to serve the day drinking populace. For this restaurant in Negreira, however, someone decided to put some extra effort for whatever reason and we were more than happy to take advantage of it.

The Meal:
-Fresh salad with a healthy assortment of greens and corn and tomatoes mixed in
-Braised pork (with added spices! a rarity here) over potatoes
-Galician beer, one of the few Spanish beers I have tried this far which I like
-THE GREATEST CHEESECAKE KNOWN TO MAN

See, this is when the meal rocketed from good to amazing. The density and texture of this dish, made in-house, was comparable to a sort of firm custard and completely different from any other cheesecake I have ever tried. And the flavor! Incredible. This area is known for producing some great cheese, and I can only assume this is what made it so tasty. I was literally overwhelmed at first bite. Tears welled up in my eyes. Once, I had made a Nutella milkshake for someone and watched the same kind of reaction, but never had I shared the same experience until today. I would walk another 300 kilometers just to have that first bite again. Almost spiritual. Such goodness.

After we finished dessert (it took a good twenty minutes to properly enjoy and appreciate it), our waiter asked if we wanted any coffee, and after I politely declined, asked if I instead wanted a shot. With my very bad Spanish, I assumed an espresso shot so I said yes, and when he asked me what type of shot I, now extremely confused, said it was up to him. Of course, he actually meant alcohol, and brought back a local liqueur similar to Bailey’s, but a bit more rich and with a pleasant aftertaste. Couldn’t have been happier to have made that mistake.

Oh, to top it all off, he came back with the bill and gave us an additional shot for free. Insane. I love this place. Marry me, Galicia.

Llegar

Our final day started with rain.

For the first two hours, it was a steady, soaking, relentless rain; washing pilgrims, washing clothes, washing sins.

Through the gray and mud and streams we walked in a silent but resolute manner. No one talked of stopping or of rest, very little was said at all. I had walked for twelve days and covered a distance of 300 kilometers and the thought of pausing was an impossible one: this was the day. Twenty kilometers to Santiago de Compostela.

We passed an airport and could not help but be startled by such noise. Since I had not heard something so loud and so fierce in almost two weeks, it was my first jarring reminder the end of this journey was rapidly closing on us. For my friends who started much, much further away, there seemed to be a mixture of wonder and apprehension. Nearly 800 kilometers stretches from the beginning of the Camino Frances to Santiago. Miles upon miles passing over rugged mountain paths, vineyards, fields, villages, streams, dirt, the dust of pilgrims centuries before: to imagine an end was nearly impossible after over 30 days of walking.

Pain, Lots and Lots of Pain, and Looking Back

My first morning of the Camino I was asked by one of the toughest people I have ever met, with all the sincerity in the world: “Are you ready for blisters that will make you cry?” He wasn’t kidding.

While I have not shed a tear (in pain) on this walk, I have cursed, winced, hobbled, and limped my way through the past few days of the Camino. I have also sworn off all forms of hiking for at least a month after I am finished. Essentially, my blisters built up to the point where a lot of ibuprofen and bandages (and some magical European patches called Compeed) were required in order to preserve any shred of evidence I possess feet. Understand: hiking 16-18 miles in a day, while difficult, can be done by pretty much anyone–hiking this much every day for 14-34 consecutive days is another matter entirely. Arriving at the final destination point at the end of our day is a huge relief…but it is also when the strain of walking so much comes down hard on everyone.

Pain. So much pain.

People of the Camino

Many who start the Camino originally intend on traveling alone. People have these big plans on discovering themselves and wandering over the grasslands of Spain without other people to distract them or detract from the experience. It never works out: people are the experience. I know this because I hear it almost universally repeated from those I talk with. From day one, it is quickly apparent the Camino is too full of excellent and engaging people to spend the entirety of it alone.

The stories I hear on a daily basis never fail to amaze me, or occasionally, bring me to tears. People who dedicate their walk to their marriages or families, or in memory of loved ones who have died of cancer. People who are seeking a radical lifestyle in order to encourage a permanent change in their outlook on life. Some are desperately seeking God, others trying to forgive those who have hurt them. Parents who have lost their children. Those seeking adventure. An escape or celebration of life. The list of reasons goes on.