Who ever thought that my pilgrimage would begin with me jerking off into a plastic cup? I’ll get to that in a little bit, but for now, I’m standing at the edge of uncertainty staring at the abyss and a 482 mile walk across Spain on the Camino de Santiago. What brought me here? I guess it’s the same things that brought me to my knees back home in Southern California: The crumbling of a 23 year marriage that taught me how to hate. The teetering of my first real relationship after being separated that had taught me how to love again, and a gnawing feeling that after more than half a century on this earth i was still lost.

I was hoping that a million steps down a path through Spain in the middle of summer to find some Saint buried in a church in a town in Western Spain would help me lose sight of the things I needed to rid myself of. Hopefully, I would leave those things behind with each boot print I made in the dirt and see the path that lies in front of me more clearly, and figure out how to walk it with the time I have left before I shuffle off this mortal coil. So when I hit rock bottom, walking the Camino barged into my psyche like a bull running through the streets of Pamplona looking to gore a drunken tourist, and it wouldn’t let go. I’d never even been to Europe, but with everything I had known and loved tumbling down around me, I didn’t have to think twice.

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, and thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprise of great pitch and moment with this regard their currents turn awry and lose the name of action.     -Hamlet

Janice and Hannah

Back to jerking off. Almost 14 years ago, there I was, at the Center for Reproductive Health, cup in hand, and a passel of porn spread out on the that thin paper that covered the exam table, like at every doctors examination room you’ve ever been in. The nurse had politely alluded to the cupboard where the porn was kept, in case I was in need of “assistance”. For some reason, the white sterile walls and the pastel pictures awash with flaccid colors didn’t give me a hard on, so I dug into the stack of magazines. Fortunately none of the pages were sticky…

I had never been one of those men who necessarily wanted kids. You know the guys. The ones who were just destined to get married, have 2.3 kids, live out their lives with a steady job, soccer games, manning the grill and watching football on the weekend. I know I should have been hard wired to create as many spitting images of myself as I could, but as I said,  I was just never that guy.

So it caught me off guard when, at 45, my wife Janice told me that she’d like to have a child. We’d never really discussed it. On reflection, a big part of it was (I think) her career, which was on a downswing. The business she had toiled in successfully for twenty years was notoriously ageist, and she wasn’t getting any younger. She hadn’t been getting much work, and it seemed to me her energies needed to be focused elsewhere. And she probably felt some maternal tug, a call to nurture that she had chose to ignore up to this point.

I was ambivalent; I mean we were both 45. After thinking about it (or maybe Janice just wore me down- an easy task for her in those days) I decided that, despite my misgivings, I would do this for the woman I loved.  After we made the decision and nothing happened, she started taking some Chinese herbs. Still nothing. Then she started taking fertility drugs and we had the obligatory sex at the appointed time.

Time went by, we kept trying. It all seemed so, uhh…scientific (except for the jerking off part) and sterile. But hey, this is our world, the one we’ve created and accepted. Finally, we got an inkling of hope. An early test indicated a positive result. A subsequent test revealed a healthy baby girl. Nine months later Hannah was born. She’s 12 now and I think I’ve been a pretty good father, taught her a few things, at least until I was ostracized from the relationship. Little did I know that after my divorce, a beautiful Swedish woman named Amanda and her four kids would teach me more about parenting, myself, and life than years of therapy with Sigmund Freud himself could have.

Amanda

Two months before setting foot on the camino, I was sitting with Amanda at a bench by Starbucks. It was the first time I’d seen her since losing her from my sight as she left the Southwest terminal at LAX and just sort of faded away. We’d been returning from a job we had both worked on. It was sort of like a traveling circus, we were working on the same project, but different teams. I saw her for a little while most days. She had told me at the beginning of the trip that she had been drifting away; her feelings for me weren’t the same. Great timing. If I would have known, maybe I wouldn’t have gotten her the job in the first place, which was through an ex- business partner of mine. I had to do some convincing to get him to hire her but, well, I was in love with her and she could use the money, having just been through a divorce herself.

The flight from Sacramento had been silent. We sat next to each other but I didn’t have much to say. We had made it to the airport early and I found myself vacillating between my old self- at least the funny, smart, adorable part of me, and a part that was now vacant, that had nothing to say. I didn’t know what to do with the part of me that had grown to love Amanda over the past 9 months. The part of me that shared my ongoing divorce with her, and hers with me. The part that wanted to feel her head resting on my shoulder, wanted to press my lips to hers and breathe life into her, and feel her breathe life into me. We weren’t sharing those things anymore.

When we got off the plane we walked to baggage claim in silence. I just felt numb. I didn’t know what the hell I was going to do to fill those lonely moments, hours, days. Even though she had been drifting away for awhile, I was still hoping for…what? I don’t know. I just knew that I would never again find the love, tenderness, and connection that I had found with this beautiful soul who picked me up when I had been knocked to the ground by the slings and arrows of a 23 year marriage that in the last few years had become emotionally abusive.

The Way

And so, I stand in Se Jean Pied de port, France looking out to my future. As Lao Tzu said, “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step”. Yeah, well…I’ll bet his first steps didn’t take him 25 km over the Pyrenees from France in the rain with a 30 pound pack on his back.

Maybe later I’ll regale you with stories of Madrid. But for now, lets just say that a little too much wine and cigarettes the night before compromised my level headedness and, more importantly my sense of direction the next morning when I was to head to St Jean Pied de Port and the beginning of my walk. After agonizing over the signs and asking a few people who didn’t speak English- my eighth grade Spanish wasn’t enough to bridge the communication gap- I finally made what I thought was an educated guess. I was wrong. When I realized my mistake I got off the train and caught a train back to where I had begun, and beyond to the central terminal, where I would hopefully take a train to Pamplona, and then to St. Jean.

When I finally did get to the station, I ran into Erin, a blond Canadian from a small town near Toronto. She was going to Pamplona to meet friends and watch the running of the bulls. It was a relief to finally talk to someone who spoke English. We walked to where you purchase bus tickets, and I went over to the Alsa counter where I had purchased a ticket online, but for, how I read it, the wrong day. I was dismayed when the woman at the counter told me that they did indeed have tickets to Pamplona which left in an hour, but I would not make the connection to St. Jean. I got out of line and kicked myself for not planning ahead, for the hangover, and the gnawing feeling that this whole adventure may have been a huge mistake…

When we got to Pamplona, Erin and I parted ways. I found my way to the bus to St. Jean where I  met a super nice Japanese guy named Kento. He was traveling, at least for the moment, with Asia, a Polish woman he had met in Madrid. He seemed like one of those guys who always wants to help> He was always interested in what you were saying, and continually nodded his head up and down while smiling or laughing, even though I had doubts about how much he really understood.  I figured I could probably use a little of what Kentos’ got. Asia told me It was his second trip to the Camino. Kento didn’t speak much English, but I got to know Asia a little since she spoke 3 languages fluently, English being one. We all boarded the bus which was only half full, and away we rolled to St. Jean.

After an hour of a winding road through the Pyrannes, we landed in St Jean in a drizzle. Asia and I hugged (she let me know she was a big hugger) and said our goodbyes. Kento had volunteered to see if there was a room at his auberge, so I followed him up a picture perfect, windy street to find that his hotel was full. So I walked back down the steep, cobble stoned street and stumbled upon a room that was abuzz with activity. I surmised that it was a place one could get their “pilgrims passport”-sort of like a real passport, with pages to get stamped in towns along the way.

I asked the woman who helped me about a place to stay, and she directed me to one of the newest auberges in St Jean, the Gite Buen Camino, which was just down the street. When I got there I was glad to see they had beds- it had started to drizzle and I pictured my first few days on the camino coughing up phlegm and blowing snot onto the Camino. Not the best behavior for a pilgrim I figured.

The proprietor Maria Estelle, gave me and a few others the tour. I opted to pay an extra euro and sleep in a smaller room with only 4 beds. As I was settling in I met two other pilgrims, both Korean, who were to be my roommates. Im and Park weren’t traveling together but had met in Paris, where they had embarked from, to travel to St Jean and walk the Camino. They spoke slightly more English than i speak Korean (which is none). Im immediately asked if I wanted to get a bite (he did most of the talking, as it were). So we walkded the thin, windy cobble stoned streets over the river to have dinner at place near the center of town. At one point Im was struggling to say how beautiful it was, and I simply said “Disneyland”. They got it, we all laughed. The town is so perfect as to be almost indescribable. So I won’t try. Here’s a picture though. 

Dinner was good, pasta with Bolognese (something Amanda had taught me to love) – it seemed it would be the perfect blend of carbs and protein to help me over the Pyrenees the next day. We got back to the auberge, and Im and I had a French beer while Park took a shower. Im commented on how kind Maria Estelle was, so I wrote in Maria Estelle’s’ guest book- “Thanks for opening up your place, and your heart to us”. Not too poetic but I was still a little brain dead from my last night of celebrating life in Madrid.

We went to bed, and after hearing my phone chirp all night (13 times to be exact, due to an old friend I had reconnected with texting suggestions for places to stay and eat) the alarm finally went off (I thought I had turned the volume off). So I got up and fumbled for it between IM and Park’s bed (that’s where the charging station was) and proceeded to get ready. It seemed to take forever, but as I subsequently found out, preparing the night before to hit the road quickly and quietly is something you learn after a few nights of getting pissed off at yourself for not being organized, and thoughtful of the other pilgrims who might still be sleeping.

Finally, I said our goodbyes to Maria Estelle who hugged me and kissed me on both cheeks. My first french kiss. Im, Park and I headed off down the perfect dewey streets of St. Jean in a steady sprinkle, almost rain. We hiked through the town, then up steep paved roads. After awhile the rain got a little harder, the clouds got a little thicker (you could only see a few hundred yards in any direction) and our clothes got wetter…

After a few hours, we came upon a little town, and the last chance to eat a real meal until Roncesvalles, our final destination that day. There were pigs the size of Shetland Ponies milling around out front, so I got a chorizo baguette for ironies sake, followed by an espresso. I sat down with a young, good looking Italian guy from Milan. It was his second camino. We talked about our countries, what brought us there. I told him that part of the reason I was out there was because of a woman. How many times have those words been uttered on the camino?

I moved on pretty quickly, wanting to get some mileage in. I met some other folks from Norway, Poland, Italy. The camino is certainly a melting pot. Compared to the rest of the world though, considering the diversity, every last person I’ve talked to is so nice, and giving. Perhaps the United Nations should walk the camino and talk. Maybe they’ll figure something out.

After awhile we came upon a van selling cheese, fruit, hot chocolate. I now hold hot chocolate (at least hot chocolate offered to a soaked soul in the middle of the Pyrenees wondering what the hell he was doing there) amongst the most regal of beverages, right up there with a intense Syrah from Eastern Washington or a cup of Terrafazione espresso from Portland

After I finished, I had trouble getting my pack back on, and by the time I was ready, the loose knit group I had been traveling with had gone. I tried to catch up but couldn’t find them in the fog. I walked alone for a long while. I got lost once, having to retrace my steps (I hadn’t been paying enough attention, my thoughts were distracting me).

I finally caught up with Wim and Elsa from Holland. I was stressing about trying to get this first post up, and then emailing and posting to Facebook, etc- trying to get some followers, get the ball rolling. In addition, it seemed that the one place to stay in the small town we were walking to (Roncesvalles) had only one large monastery where all the pilgrims stayed. I was pretty sure monks didn’t use the internet. in fact I’d heard that Roncesvalles isn’t really even a town. In addition it’s in the mountains. I was certain internet access would be non-existent. Hell, they probably wouldn’t even have electricity, running water, or indoor plumbing. God, what if I can’t check in on Facebook…

I got to Roncesvalles drenched and I couldn’t wait to take a hot shower After walking up to the second floor I found bunk #234, my home for the night. Shivering due to my wet clothes, and having switched from my hiking boots to my wet flip flops (due to the fact I had smartly hung them on the outside of my pack) I rifled through my backpack for my other pair of long pants which were…drenched. Seems i had ignored putting the rain cover over the pack, reasoning that the backpack was pretty waterproof. Guess not.

So I went to take a shower which was nice and hot. I finally removed myself from the comfort that can only be found in a warm shower, and maybe the womb, I turned the shower off and went to grab my towel. Except I forgot the lesson I had learned (obviously not very well) the night before in St Jean, that auberges don’t have towels. Note to self: buy towel. So I used my wet shirt to dry off. It worked.

Then I got dressed in what I had that was dry, which is why I’m writing this from my top bunk, looking out the window of a thousand year old monastery where my other long pants and wet underwear are drying, wearing the only other long sleeved shirt i have that’s dry- a black $150 John Varvatos button down (that I brought to wear in Madrid) over a lime green t-shirt with a picture of a gorilla riding a bike, and a pair of O Neil board pants from Costco.

And I am happy. And I am grateful. I am especially grateful to those I am dedicating this blog to: Janice, Amanda, and Hannah, and the woman in my life who’ve taught me the lessons i’ve needed to learn, and who continue to show me the way.

And we’ll walk down the avenue again
And we’ll sing all the songs from way back when
And we’ll walk down the avenue again when the healing has begun

Nor I had slept well, and was cold most of the night. I had only packed the recommended sleeping bag liner, since most of my walking will be spent in 90+ degree weather (Madrid was 95-100 the whole time I was there). So, after a day of walking in a constant rain and being soaked to my sorry pilgrim ass, I was somewhat cold already when I went to bed. And as usual I woke up at 5ish, so I groped around and found my sleeping pills and proceeded to choke down half a pill without water making sure not to wake my bunk mates. I dozed off to sleep after a half hour and was in the middle of a rem cycle when I was prompted to wake up.

So as the other pilgrims packed and left-obviously they hadn’t spent an evening in Madrid over imbibing and if they did, the fact that most of them were at least twenty years younger than me contributed to them bouncing back a little quicker. So I took a little more time than most to get my shit together.

So the fat, pissed off guy who had woke us up before (his demeanor had changed, probably only due to my now somewhat anxious perception of him) made the rounds again, telling me (my other bunk mates were long gone) essentially that I should get my pathetic pilgrim ass in gear and head out to the camino if I really wanted to find what I was looking for.

I threw a last few things in my pack and headed out to the Posada de Roncesvalles for breakfast, a few hundred yards from the auberge. It was a separate building, dating probably to the 1800’s (new by Roncesvalles standards). Park and Im were there, as well as Else and Wim. I was served a simple breakfast of cheese, meat, bread, juice, and most importantly, coffee. I sat with some folks I had not yet met. Nobody spoke much, they were probably like me, too tired and in pain to utter a word, after climbing rain-soaked over the Pyrenees.

I left by myself thinking I would catch Park and Im, since I could see them off in the distance. The path took me along the side of the road for awhile, and then into forest. I started to think about the things that had happened to me recently. Really, most of the things that happen to us in life aren’t big catastrophes, although we often make them out to be. Most of it is pretty small stuff.

So maybe those things happen to give us pause, make us reflect, and are there as reminders that we are human, fallible and can make mistakes. And hopefully we learn from those mistakes. If you think you haven’t got anything left to learn, then I’ve got an internet venture called myspace you might be interested in.

As I got further away from Roncesvalles, everything became more lush, greener. I ran into a few people, made small talk, and wished everyone the traditional ‘”buen camino” (good camino, good journey)  as I passed by. Apparently, rumor is on the camino that I’m Tom Hanks. I’ve had 5 or 6 people ask about it, and my resemblance to him. I’ve heard this before and frankly I always thought he was a little goofy looking (sorry Tom), while I see myself as being much hotter ;). They all must have seen “Castaway”-I’m thinking’ it’s the beard.

When Stefano mentioned my resemblance yesterday (at the place I had lunch in the Pyrenees), his friend piped in (in broken Italian/English) and said “It must work well with the ladies”. I laughed and told him that’s what Tinders for. He gave me that smile you get when you know someone hears you but they don’t understand.

I did think later it might be funny to create “Tinder para el Camino” ©- helping people from all over the world hook up on the camino”. Talk about a melting pot. Then again, it sort of collides with the reasons most are here. I really wasn’t serious but I have trademarked the idea.

I moved on through peaceful, deciduous forests and farmland. Big white cows, round Monet haystacks. The sun broke through the clouds, providing that brilliant light you get after your eyes have dimmed and gotten used to the grey. Most of the time I heard cowbells down in the hollows and glades. I think I saw the ghost of Christopher Walken walking along side me (wait, he’s not dead, he just kind of looks like it). More cowbell!

I was walking alone for awhile, so I started singing as I do- badly (“Helpless”, Neil Young). I also play guitar badly. It reminded me of the time not too long ago, in the final throes of my marriage, when I was sitting on the floor wrapping christmas presents. When I wanted a break ( wrapping presents is next in line after death and taxes in the pantheon of crappy things in life) I would pick up the guitar and sing a few verses (it was probably Helpless).

My daughter walked by and made fun of me for trying to sing. I used to sing to her when I gave her a bath as an infant. I know my singing voice isn’t that great, but who cares? I felt embarrassed and sad. What 8 year old daughter would even think to say what she did, and where had that came from? I can only guess. I never sang around her after that.

I walked a little further and finally ran into some Polish pilgrims. Damian and Lucha. The both laughed a lot which immediately endeared them to me. Lucha had just joined Damian in St Jean, because she wasn’t down with starting at Damian’s doorstep in Krakow and walking across half of Poland, Germany, France and Spain like he had done.

Which by the way, is how the original pilgrims did it centuries ago, by simply walking out their front door- usually in Spain although routes have been established in most of Europe. Damian was Catholic (as is the dude buried at the end of the camino) and for him it’s a religious pilgrimage.

We traveled together for awhile, talking about his trek, my journey, life in general (it seems to come up a lot on the camino). We also discussed the previous night, checking in at Roncesvalles. You had to fill out a simple form and check off why you were trekking the camino. Two of the options were cultural and spiritual and we postulated that everyone must be out here for at least partially spiritual reasons, for a chance to look oneself in the eye and take stock.

With his easy laugh and attitude (and the fact that he had walked from Poland) Damian was the most interesting Pilgrim I had run across so far. But then, as I parted ways with him and Lucha, I ran into Emma and Baya, from Portland Oregon.

They had met in a blueberry patch when they were two. Uh-huh. They actually did. They had been friends ever since, are in their early 20’s and live a mile from each other. I’ve always loved the Northwest, mainly due to the people I’ve met there, and the healthy, creative energy that seems to subside there. I’ve spent a lot of time there, and everyone I’ve met, for the most part, always seems smart, creative, open to anything. And these girls were no exception. It was Emma’s first time on the Camino, Baya had been once before.

I don’t know if you ever meet people who, right off the bat, you just start talking about anything and everything under the sun with. I have- Amanda was one them. Maybe you just have to be open to it, and some of us, sadly aren’t. So Emma, Baya, and I walked, and we talked about everything under the sun. One topic led to another, then another…

We talked about some dude with a map of life, Joseph Campbell, our lives, heroes journeys, how they liked to sing on the camino, etc, etc, etc. Then, Baya told a story that made me have to walk ahead so they couldn’t see the tears in my eye. And I don’t even know how we got on the subject.

Baya told me about a friend whose son was emotionally disabled (Aspergers type symptoms). Only thing was, when she saw the kid without the parents (her friend would babysit him from time to time) there were absolutely no signs of anything, the kid was completely normal (whatever normal is these days). The child’s nervousness, anxiety, and external misbehavior was caused by the parents.

I had thought about this exact thing in regards to Hannah before. I had heard a similar story a few years prior. I didn’t really have any concrete evidence, but I’ve seen the little gestures and hand signals Janice gives to Hannah. So has my mom. And I know that Janice is controlling, and has Hannah wrapped around her little finger.

I have no doubt that Janice thinks she is doing the right thing. I am also certain that some of it is due to my moving out 2 years prior. It’s just that all parents think they are doing the right thing, but sometimes maybe they’re doing it the wrong way. I’m sure that if Janice ever reads this, she would never understand that maybe if she gets some help, it will help Hannah. Talk about the camino providing.

As I walked away from Emma and Baya (sometimes it’s not necessary to say goodbye) immersed in my thoughts about everything we had discussed, they started singing:

If you’ve been thinking you’re all that you’ve got,
Then don’t feel alone anymore.
When we’re together, then you’ve got a lot,
‘Cause I am the river and you are the shore.

And it goes on and on, oh, watching the river run,
Further and further from things that we’ve done,
Leaving them one by one.
And we have just begun, watching the river run.
Listening and learning and yearning.
Run, river, run.

Winding and swirling and dancing along,
We pass by the old willow tree
Where lovers caress as we sing of our song,
Twisting together when we greet the sea.

And it goes on and on, watching the river run,
Further and further from things that we’ve done,
Leaving them one by one.
And we have just begun watching the river run.
Listening and learning and yearning.
Run, river, run.

As I moved on, I started singing along.

I met Amanda at a party. I almost didn’t go, I had been with some friends earlier and begrudgingly took my leave. The party was a “celebration of life” honoring the birthday of one of the hosts’ friends, and the passing of another. The host was a business associate who had become a friend.

I didn’t know who’s birthday it was, but as the fucked up hand of fate seemed to be touching my life those days, I had had a legal entanglement with the dead woman-a lawyer- who had been murdered by her boyfriend.(http://www.etonline.com/news/168488_legal_diva_reality_star_loredana_nesci_reportedly_killed_los_angeles/).

Looking back in life, it seems that maybe from time to time we should stand back and look at the sign posts. It seems to me that there are, at times, certain things that help to lead us off in the wrong direction, away from our authentic self (I’ll probably use that term a lot), the person we were put on this earth to learn to be. This is assuming that there is any meaning to our existence here on this mortal coil.

If the signs hint at you (or maybe scream) that you’re somewhere perhaps you shouldn’t be, maybe it’s time to head in a different direction. My legal dealings with the dead lawyer whose life the party was celebrating should have been one of those signposts that screamed at me to run. But there I was.

I walked into the kitchen and a few women descended on me like vultures (later I found out they were more like mother hens). I figured it was just because I had a bottle of red wine. After pouring wine for all of us and making some small talk, I walked outside past the 2 piece band playing old Motown and 70’s rock to the tables that had been set up on the lawn. I finished my wine, ambled over to the bar to get a beer, and walked around. I was trying to figure out how to make a quick escape. I ended up at one of the round tables on the lawn after being called over by one of the women I had graciously donated some of my wine to.

I then proceeded to be chatted up by the women who had now been joined by their husbands, boyfriends, etc. They asked me who I was, what I did, how I knew the host. The rest is a blur. I don’t know if it was intentional or if it just happened, but all I remember is, (it could have been ten minutes or an hour, later) I was at the same table with Amanda, the one friend of these woman who was alone. And suddenly we were alone. And I don’t remember anything of what was going on around us as we spoke. Except calm. And it seems as if we talked about everything under the sun and stars.

Maybe this was her friends’ intent. But you know what they say about the road that’s paved with good intentions. Still, the more we spoke, the more I felt like I had known her forever.  It wasn’t the words she spoke, but what she spoke of. It wasn’t what I heard but what I felt.

After awhile, her friends let her know that they were leaving. They invited me to join them, but I declined. And in fact, it was almost as an afterthought, just as she was walking away, that I handed Amanda a business card to email me.

Long before, I had accepted the fact that I would be without someone for awhile. But you know what the Buddhists say: only when you stop searching for something will it find you. Or maybe it was Yoda who said that. Nonetheless, somewhere, amongst the rumblings of my insecurity and ambivalence, something glowed dimly. She was so damned easy to talk to and we shared some common threads: separated (later we found out for exactly the same amount of time), abusive spouses, kids, the joy and pain of life.

A week or so later we had dinner overlooking the crashing waves of the Pacific. A night of shooting stars, roving peacocks, and a thrilling reminder of what we had both long forgotten: that life can be good, and if you’re lucky, maybe you can be given the opportunity to mend the wounds of the past with the help of another.

Janice and I got together on a balcony, at a wrap party after too many drinks. We kissed, that was it. I had been working with her on several freelance jobs, and I hadn’t been seeing anyone in awhile, I guess I was ready. She was smart, she had it going on. She was attractive to me. I’d like to think I’m not that superficial. I like to think that emotions and feelings color the actual physical perception of our vision. If we feel something, we overlook some aspects of the physical nature of things.

After that moment on the balcony we were pretty much together. I don’t know if she knew what she was doing, I sure as hell didn’t. Maybe she knew it was time to get this one thing in place so she could then focus on the next thing.  I, on the other hand, had been drifting at the time. And getting together with her did help me focus. Focus on the things that she thought were important. We became a team. So, being passive, I went along with it. Trying to do something creative went by the wayside. I didn’t think about her lack of passion, her focus on money, or her idiosyncrasies. I used to joke that it was “an East Coast thing” (she was from New York). I guess i was the stereotypical west coast laid back guy. But when your a hopeless romantic you just dive in. And you never think about the possibility that you might drown.

I got another top bunk. An Irish bloke (s. Diúlach m, cuilceach m.) was in the bunk below. We had an immediate rapport, based mainly on the fact we both spoke English. We arranged to have dinner in an hour, so I walked down the street to the cafe to get a glass of wine and write. I felt very Hemingwayesque, especially since I was headed to Pamplona the next day, and my beard was filling in.

In fact, I felt a little like Santiago (how appropriate), the main character in Hemingway’s’ “Old Man and the Sea”. In the story, Santiago (a fisherman by trade) has gone 84 days without catching a fish. Finally, after much struggle and sacrifice, he goes out further than he ever has, and hooks a large marlin. After a long and grueling struggle with the fish, he finally hauls it in and lashes it to the side of his boat and heads back.

But then, in a seemingly final indignity, he sees his trophy catch destroyed by sharks that he tries valiantly to fight off. When he gets back to his village all thats left is a carcass. He returns with nothing. Yet, this apparent defeat enables him to undergo a remarkable transformation, and he wrests triumph and renewed life from his seeming defeat.

The last few years of my life have been like Santiago’s 84 days. And I guess like the old man who refuses defeat at every turn (he resolves to sail out beyond the other fishermen to where the biggest fish promise to be), I’m going out beyond the ordinary, to walk this path. And like Santiago, I am hoping that the experience will cause me to undergo a transformation- letting go of the past, coming to grips with who I am, and learning to see life in a new light.

Back to dinner. Cormac showed up and we ate our dinners and talked. He’s a school teacher trying to get some tenure over in Ireland. So he’s smart, insightful, thoughtful. I’ve only been out her a few days and here’s yet another soul I feel I can discuss anything with. As we finished dinner, two Swedish girls showed up that Cormac had met earlier on the camino.

We invited them over to the table. Rosemary and Caroline came over and proceeded to…laugh. Well, not just laugh, but their conversation was peppered with smiles and laughter. In fact they used to work at the same place but Rosemary was asked to leave because the two just got along so famously, laughed too much, and never got anything done.

Then Caroline told us a story about her and Rosemary and some Japanese guy who found themselves in a little stone hut, cold wet and tired the previous day. They found some wood and decided to build a fire. The girls were hooting and hollering, the story was funny (every story they told was funny, infused by their infectious laughter). Then I asked them if the guy was kind of short (yes), had short cropped hair (yes) and if his name might be Kento. They thought about it for a moment and shrieked “yes”!

I just thought it was funny that this guy I had never seen walking on the camino (for all I know he was being chauffeured in a limo from point to point) but who just kept appearing out of nowhere would be the guy they built their fire with.

Just as the story finished, I turned to look over at the counter, and as fate would have it, there was Kento, walking over with his dinner, laughing. We all cracked up at the serendipitous nature of what had just happened, and what the camino provides.

We finished dinner and went back to the auberge. I stayed up awhile, posting yesterdays blog. My other 7 bunkmates were fast asleep when I climbed onto my top bunk. All the lights were off so I tried to find my overnight kit so I could brush my teeth. After 10 minutes of futility- groping around my bed in the dark where I thought I had left it, climbing down on the rickety bunk ladder and feeling through by pack, then checking the around the sinks and showers, I gave up, resigned to going to sleep with stinky teeth.

So I just laid down and went to sleep. Sort of. After about an hour some sort of alarm or weird music started sounding. The way the night was going I figured it was probably my phone (sometimes Pandora seemed to play for no apparent reason). I checked it, and my phone was not the culprit, so I laid back down. The song/alarm/whateverthefuckitwas continued, and the girl in the bunk next to me asked me if it was my music. I assured her it wasn’t me. Still, the sound was coming from my direction.

After another moment it was painfully obvious that I was going to have to rappel down from the bunk and go look in the cupboard that housed my backpack for who knows what. The only thing I could think of is that it was the eight dollar bluetooth speaker I bought for $35 from some shop in Madrid (don’t get me started). The aux plug didn’t work with my iPod which is why I bought it. Of course it came with an instruction sheet with a few lines of english that were translated by someones 7 year old 5th cousin in Shanghai who had earnestly learned 9 words of english from the internet.

I found the speaker and the sounds weren’t emanating from it. Remember Im in a dark bunk room, everyones asleep (well, they had been asleep). And here I am, some American dude fucking with their pilgrimage. So I just kept grabbing shit out of my pack trying to figure out where the sound was coming from. Finally I grabbed my Kindle which I had thrown in at the last minute. I hadn’t used it in months. It had never made a sound before but there it was, chirping some fucking techno beat ballad. Imagine George Winston with a drum machine.

I hit the power button and it stopped, after I muttered a few expletives that at least Cormack heard, repeating it to me the next day, laughing. I figured it must have been another message from the guides of the camino, telling me to unload some of the needless trappings of modern society from my metaphorical bag of shit.

I climbed up to my bunk to finally go to sleep. Everything quieted down until, after a few minutes. Cormack whispered to me that something was dripping water on his arm. I fell back down the rickety aluminum ladder that barely held my weight, knowing that my little hydration backpack must have started leaking due to me moving my backpack around when I was searching for whatever was producing the mad techno George Winston ballad. I shoved it into the cupboard, climbed back up to my bunk, and finally fell asleep.

The next morning I had to organize my pack again since I had scattered everything from the backpack in search of the offending noise the night before. I was the last one out, I stopped to get an espresso and a sort of Apple danish that the Portland girls had recommended (they should know, coming from the land of bacon doughnuts) the night before when I ran into them after dinner. Finally, I was off.

The preamble to todays journey was kind of like my life lately. Sort of a big mess, from taking the train in Madrid the wrong way, to getting out late in Roncesvalles, to my shit going off in the middle of the night. Im hoping that the camino will set things straight, and begin to help clean up the mess.

Some of my mess was my doing, some of it was due to others. Not necessarily their intent, they were just trying to get what they thought they needed. Aren’t we all. But it’s because of those things that we do, most of the time with good intent, that we hurt each other. We try to get what we need, the best way we know how. But the way we learned is usually passed down from those that were not necessarily the best teachers. They were doing the best they could, armed with the sins of their fathers, passed down to them.

I walked out of Zubiri and the path moved up to the side of a beautiful little valley which leads into Pamplona. I ran into Cormac and we ended up walking together for most of the day. Like with the Portland girls, our conversation took as many twists and turns as the path we were walking. There was a dam across the stream we were walking alongside so we ambled down the bank and dipped out feet in the water.

After getting back on the path and walking awhile, we ran across a beautiful old church and heard the story of it from a South African gentleman who was refurbishing the place. He told us that the church was of somewhat unknown origins and they were just finding out about it’s history. Some of the symbolism even pointed towards the Knights Templar. The quiet and beauty of the place reminded me of why I am here.

We moved on through the beautiful little valley, stopping at another church and ringing a bell that was the oldest in the region (1300’s). Cormack moved ahead and I lingered, taking pictures, walking by beautiful old farms with roosters, geese, peacocks.

I caught up with Cormac again and we pushed on into Pamplona. It was the last day of the festival of St. Fermin, the running of the bulls. He stopped at an auberge, I moved on to the hotel I had booked for the night. I had decided to treat myself to my own room and shower, and try to catch up on some much needed sleep. And hopefully…to dream.

Janice had booked a trip to Hawaii with her friend Paula not too long after we had gotten together at the wrap party. I said goodbye and wished her well. Always the hopeless romantic, I devised a plan.

I decided I would surprise her on Kauai. Since I didn’t have much to my name at the time, I sold my Toyota Turcel and booked a flight to Hawaii and a room near where Paula and Janice were staying. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do when I got there, but I figured the fates would guide me. I checked into my hotel and drove over to where they were staying. I figured they would be at the pool, so I walked out, and Janice was at the other end of the pool. She didn’t notice me, so I dove into the pool and swam underwater to where she was. I popped up in front of her and, well, she was surprised. And I suppose smitten. No one had probably ever done anything like that for her.

Unfortunately I hadn’t taken into account how Paula might react. The dynamic had shifted. What she had anticipated was now unalterably changed. But then she hooked up with the Scuba instructor and everything was fine. We hung out as couples for the rest of the trip. Janice and I ended up getting engaged on Kauai, and went there often until Hannah was born. As fate would have it, my company got a job producing a job on Kauai for Norwegian Cruise Lines. I hired Janice to produce, and I went along as Executive Producer to oversee. Hannah travelled like a star, soundly sleeping for much of the flight, non-plussed. She took the whole trip in stride, a happy kid.

I still have a picture of her in her mothers arms on a beach in Kauai. Hopefully the adventure is embedded in her soul: the smells of plumeria, the feel of warm winds touching her face, and the love of her two parents caring for her and making her secure, even in an unfamiliar place.

It was the last time either of us had any interest in traveling to the island we had once loved.

So I called Amanda and we met at Terranea, a beautiful resort overlooking the ocean in Palos Verdes. I still wasn’t expecting much. And I don’t fucking know why, considering what transpired over the following 10 months. When she showed up she was wearing a light summer dress, blue and white. And then…we started talking again.

Like at the party. It was like I had known her forever. It was so easy. We had dinner, we listened to the band and had some wine (Justin Cab- PV Moms Kool-Aid) and walked back to her car. It was a little bit of a hike along a sandy path. And then we stopped. And we saw a shooting star, and a peacock barked in the distance. And…we kissed. We both laughed, saying that we had never kissed on first dates before. We held each other for a long time, not wanting to let go.

Looking back, I know that part of the reason we held each other so tight and felt such a deep connection is that we had both been through hell. When you find someone whose been torn apart, battered, and dragged through the mud like you have, you hold on tight because you’ve found someone who understands what you’ve been through, someone you can talk to, and if your lucky, someone who can show you how to love again. Standing there holding her made me feel, for the first time in a long while, like the man I had left behind so long ago.

Little did I know that some of the things that conspired to make that moment happen would eventually make her walk away.

Pamplona was a ghost town, a hangover from the 10 day Fiesta of St Fermin. I was walking alone, passing a few pilgrims as Pamplona faded away behind me. At the edge of town I walked through a peaceful, quiet park, over a freeway, and headed through some fields before the path turned uphill towards Cizur Minor, a small town where I stopped for some fruit, salami, cheese and bread; staples of the pilgrim.

I continued on wondering if I’d see anyone I had met on the first few days of my walk. I walked through fields of hay. Beyond were rolling hills with big white windmills. I thought about Don Quixote. And like the windmills in the book which (I think) were a metaphor for Don Quijote’s difficulties in life (one of them being he was a hopeless romantic in a world that had no patience for dreamers anymore) I was out here to deal with some of my own windmills. In the end Quixote proves that he has faith in himself – but he also discovers that it might not be enough in the real world.

The camino took a sharp turn to the left and all of a sudden I was in a lush green forest, deciduous trees, green vines, a stream. It was nice and cool so I picked up the pace. After a few km I arrived at Zariquiegui (hey I didn’t name these towns) and found a cafe where a bunch of pilgrims were sitting outside taking a break. Cormac was there so after a bocadillo we continued on together, picking up where we had left off, talking about our lives, telling jokes (which we both suck at by the way), and passing the time. Well, Cormac might take umbrage to that joke comment.

We walked by several fields of sunflowers that were just ready to show their faces, and Cormac told me of a friend of his who says there’s no one who can look at a sunflower and not smile. I agreed, and smiled.

We climbed up to the Alto del Perdon (Mount of Forgiveness) a high point with a 360 view and a monument to us pilgrims. We posed for pictures and stopped for lunch. I realized I had lost my reading glasses and hat, which didn’t put me in a forgiving mood. I guessed that maybe the monument was supposed to give us pilgrims pause and remind us that maybe on this early step in our journey, one of the first things we have to do (on this pilgrimage, as well as in life) is to forgive. Forgive those who have wronged us, and forgive ourselves- for the things we’ve done, the things we can’t change, the things we regret. Only than can we really move on.

As we walked down into the valley -a wide expanse of soft hills that looked kind of like Palmdale without the box stores and crack houses- it got noticeably hotter. In addition, it was a 24 km day so we just buckled down and moved on, walking through a few pretty little towns, not stopping. We finally made it to our final destination” Punta La Reina. We were beat so we stopped at the first auberge we saw. Fortunately it had a shaded outdoor patio with a bar. I was sold, I knew where I was going to be writing.

When I sat down to write I met Hikhun, who was writing and sketching. She was from South Korea and had ran into Park and Im early on. She was a little shy about her work, but she allowed me to take a picture. Here it is:

Then Cormac, her, and Wim headed over to the village to buy some ingredients for dinner. They made an awesome pasta with mushrooms, onions and beef and we chowed down. The perfect meal to load up on for a long walk the next day. I recompensed by cleaning up.

As I’m writing and the sun is going behind the hills, I sit thinking about the beginning of my day. Life would be easier if we just followed the signs. But the signs are more obvious to some than to others. I guess the key is to open yourself up enough to see the signs, know when they make sense for you, and follow them. Just use that one thing that knows how to recognize the signs: your heart.

For the first 10 years of our marriage, we both poured ourselves into work. Janice continued with her career, a freelancer. I did the same, and then had the opportunity to take over a small company that was going to close. I hired my brother as the sales guy, and we grew the company, landing a job the first month of our existence, working out of the back room of Janice and my rental. We both poured ourselves into work, growing the company, moving out of the house first to a small office in town, then to Venice Beach, where all the hip companies were.

The years flew by. I found myself traveling, producing television commercials across the country. Then, as I mentioned before, things slowed down. The industry was changing. It was about this time Janice was getting less work, and when her thoughts turned to motherhood.

After Hannah was born, Janice took charge of rearing Hannah. But as the infinite hand of the universe touched out lives, I became more involved. I loved this wide eyed soul who had touched our lives. Janice was re-gearing her career. It was a smart move since the writing was on the wall. I helped her get into the union, acquiring and organizing the mountain of paperwork necessary to qualify. I was able to adapt my schedule to help care for Hannah.

So when Janice had to work long hours, I would make Hannah her breakfast, get her ready for school, hang out with the moms on the street, and either take the kids, or send her off with one of the other moms, the bright, big, beautiful future tucked into the little backpack she carried on her shoulders as she bounced down the street, talking and laughing with the other kids.

When she got home I would take her through homework, make her dinner, give her a bath (for some reason I got into the habit of singing to her- I can’t sing) and fall asleep with her after reading her some stories. Life seemed like it was supposed to be. It just was.

Little did I know during those moments when I was laying next to her reading stories as she drifted off to sleep that the exquisite madness of the universe would tear my marriage apart.

When I met Amanda, even though we spent an hour talking about shit you don’t talk about on a casual first meeting. And I truthfully don’t remember her as being as truly beautiful as, she became, in short order, in my eyes. Her beauty grew as I got to know her. And well, to a hopeless romantic like me, I guess thats how it should work.

I had asked Amanda out almost as an afterthought. As she left the party with her friends, I asked her if she’d like to get a drink sometime, and handed her a business card. At that point, emotionally, my life was just a shit bag of chaos. I had been seeing someone casually, we had a great rapport and I thought it might be going somewhere. So I still wasn’t even sure I was going to get ahold of Amanda.

The day following the party, I had received a text from her saying she enjoyed talking with me at the party and she’d love to have a drink. I was outside at a bar overlooking the beach, waiting for a concert on the beach to begin. So I did what any guy would- I took a picture of my feet (crossed resting on a rail, looking at the water) and sent it to her. So we went out to Terranea for dinner and drinks, as described in my previous post.

After our first date, Amanda called me up to ask if I’d join her at a party some friends where having (a few who I had met the same night I met her). I drove up to Karen and Don’s house, a beautiful place above a park in Palos Verdes, and walked into the kitchen where Amanda was, along with some of her friends from the other night.

One of the guys was testing a recipe for a new restaurant concept he was developing- he had recently sold a pizza franchise he had built from the ground up and was testing out ideas for a new concept. Everyone was around the kitchen island and there were pots with beef, barbecue sauce, etc everywhere. People were “fluffing the beef” (a technical description of this process would take more time than you or I have, so just use your imagination).

Amanda had brought a bottle of Cayuse Syrah from Walla Walla. If you know anything about Walla Walla Syrahs’ (and who doesn’t) you would be impressed. Did I mention I like wine? So if the fact that she was beautiful, smart, and liked to laugh wasn’t enough…

We drank the wine, we fluffed the beef, we talked. They all had interesting stories. , After awhile, everyone went outside to Don and Karen’s beautiful terraced backyard, congregating around a fire-pit. We listened to Eagles songs from a cover band that was playing a concert in the park below. Amanda and I sat close to each other holding hands, in fact we couldn’t keep our hands off each other- maybe this was the first sign of some sort of codependency.

Or maybe it was just a sign of two people who had been hurt, and were just so in need of something they’d been missing for so long. I guess we were enamored with each other, and felt lucky to have found each other, after what each of us had been through the previous few years.

I can only smile when I think back about those days, despite the things that would eventually challenge us, and force us to confront the ugly habits we had learned from our past relationships.

Cormac and I left the auberge and walked over the queens bridge (the name of the town means, well, “the queens bridge”). Some queen (Queen Muniadona, wife of King Sancho 3rd if you must know) built the bridge specifically for pilgrims to be able to cross the river into the town to be nourished and sleep before continuing their pilgrimage.

A few miles out of Puente La Reina the path became light sand, gravel. It reminded me of hikes I had taken in the local mountains in Southern California. As we moved on it got warmer and we started walking through cornfields mixed with grape vines. 

After awhile we walked uphill and pines and various coniferous trees surrounded us. It got a little cooler. Cormac told me a story about when he lived in Korea for 6 months. Apparently he went to dinner with 2 guys he was working with. One of them he called Pakeman who became a good friend of his. Another was a big guy, older, about the age of Cormac’s dad whose name was Pac-jeum-bae. I’m talking sumo wrestler big. Cormac had a casual friendship with him.

The three were out to dinner and Cormac related that he had his camera stolen while he was riding a bike in Seoul. A guy just drove by on a moped and lifted his camera out of his basket. As the dude drove off, he turned around and smiled .

As they ate, the sumo wrestler excused himself. After about a half hour he returned with a camera, the one Cormac is using on his pilgrimage. Later Cormac learned that Pac-jeum-bae had lost a son, pretty early on. Maybe he was just doing something nice. Or maybe he was doing something for the son he never got to know, the son he never got to help guide through life, the son he never got a chance to love.

We walked through Villatuerta. It was siesta, so only a few kids were walking around the town square. We stopped and had some lunch by the church- bread I had bought locally, some salami and cheese. An old dude walked out of the arch next to us, a smile on his face. it was quiet, peaceful. I was grateful for sharing this moment with Cormac, my new friend.

Just beyond the city we moved through wheat fields. Then we hit Lorca, another small town. House martins flew above us, their mud nests built under the eaves of the houses. We moved on, it got hotter, we walked on dusty roads, and Cormac related a story about his grandmother.

His brother had gotten engaged to a Spanish girl and they were to get married in a little village in Spain. Cormac’s grandmother was 91 at the time and was reluctant to go, she was worried about traveling such a distance. She was finally convinced, and made the trek. When she got back all she could talk about was the sunshine (apparently they don’t have any in Ireland), the food, and her time in Spain.

She died a year later. What are they odds Cormac’s brother would marry some Spanish broad in a small village in Spain? Maybe the universe conspired to give their grandmother an opportunity to experience a little more of life, something she was reluctant to give to herself.

Worriers are people who think of all the variables beyond their control. We can’t take everything into consideration. In the end, I guess if you just go with your heart, sometimes against your own instincts (which are discolored by the vagaries of life) you might just decide to do something crazy like go to Spain and walk 470 miles across it…

We trundled on, got lost for a few km’s due to us talking. We commiserated with the GPS, cowering in the shadows of hay bales stacked two stories high in the middle of a wheat field. We finally found our way and got into Estella tired, aching, and hot.

LETTER TO MYSELF

Since the part of this blog has to do with relationships, I’m going to take stock of my past ones and try to make some sense of things. Throw it out to the Universe.

I was born (and still am!) an identical twin. My youth seemed normal- middle class, the suburbs of Los Angeles- walking to elementary school to hang out with friends and maybe learn a few things along the way. Summers were filled with long, hot days playing baseball until after dark, mom driving us to the beach on the weekends where I learned to body surf. It was pretty idyllic.

I’m not sure when and why I became intensely shy. Maybe having a twin had something to do with it. According to the book “The Same But Different” by John A Friedman, “… twin pairs have been emotionally reliant on one another for many years, they unwittingly develop an unhealthy dependence upon one another. Very few people question this codependency because twins are expected to experience an extraordinary closeness”.

But, I had girls as friends through 8th grade. That’s when things turned south. For some reason my brains/emotions decided I was ugly. I guess I was the perfect petrie dish for insecurity to grow and fester. I know I wasn’t the only one. I have to laugh now at how immature I was. I’ve never spoken to anyone about this, haven’t really thought about it until now.

It was somewhere in junior high that I remember being in the back seat of a parents car, being driven to dance class and having my friend Doug (resident trouble maker later put into the witness protection program for arranging for small planes with cocaine to deliver their cargo somewhere in Oklahoma) and him telling me that a girl liked me, and how she put out. I think we got together after class that night, but never even kissed. I was either not interested, or mortified. Later I was told she tried to commit suicide.

So, high school was, for the most part, about hanging out with my friends. Boys awkwardly becoming men (very slowly- in fact barely starting the process, at least in high school. I think most of us still haven’t completed the process). I was resigned to swimming and water polo in school, and whatever sports were going on at the time (I was mediocre at all of them) outside of school with my friends who were similarly afflicted with outsiderness for whatever their reasons were.

I never really even went on a date in high school. Some twins tried to make a connection (tenuous at best) with my brother and I but, well, they were a little stout and must have worn their beauty inside. I wasn’t interested. I couldn’t wait to get out of high school and head to collage, and “life”. In retrospect I should have waited, grown up a little, and appreciated college more.

As it was I was interested in college, but probably more interested in living. College though was a great place to meet woman, and I met plenty, and somewhat naturally, came out of my box. In addition to going to class, I worked nights- I could support myself stocking shelves at a supermarket 20-30 hours a week.

In the beginning it was great, but as living intervened, school became less a priority, so working at night became a burden as I fell asleep during class a lot. Still, I scraped through with a B- Didn’t even go to the graduation ceremony. I don’t really even remember that last year, I just needed a few classes here or there to fulfill the requirements. At that time in my life, marriage wasn’t even a thought, and kids certainly weren’t on my radar.

But, as I’ve mentioned before, when Janice approached me about having a child, I agreed, because it seemed like it meant so much to her, and I figured maybe I could learn something, grow up a little. What I came to learn was that I became pretty much disposable once Janice had gotten what she wanted, and I wasn’t providing everything she felt she needed.

This is sort of a poem I wrote, at the time

You were smiling, turning round to look at me.

And I was looking at you. 

Until the day we both stopped. looking. And turning.

It was on that wooded trail, the smell of pine and bough.

The sound of crunchy needles underneath.

The rubber of boot and breath and sweat.

I’ll always remember the amber hues of the sun

squeezing it’s way through the needles

like two fingers opening white metal blinds

We didn’t worry about much.

We didn’t talk about the things we could never know.

We didn’t care about not finding our way home.

Now we’re so careful. You and your nervous chatter.

And your armor.

Me with my half-assed laugh and doubt. And my black hat and overcoat.

Is this really life?

I found out soon enough that Amanda had four kids. The oldest was 19, out of the house living with her boyfriend. Savannah was 18, in her last year of high school and going off to collage in Switzerland. Maggie was just moving into her teen years, getting the first tastes of becoming a woman. Her youngest, Chris was a skater boy/gamer and was probably the most affected by losing their father to the vagaries of life and what it can do to you. What I mean is, their father was probably just as messed up as the rest of us, fighting his own demons.

What are the odds that they would all be artistic? Probably a nod to Amanda’s raising them. You figure at least one of them would have leanings towards, say, math or animal husbandry. They could all sing and dance. Beautiful, but troubled, affected by the breakup of Amanda and their father, and his erratic behavior. At times it seemed obvious they were crying out for his attention.

So, it was with amazement to me when I instantly bonded with these kids, especially the two younger ones. I just never thought twice about what I was getting into, what I was signing on for. It just kind of came naturally. Maybe I was supposed to be a dad to a big brood. Looking back, I guess part of it was due to my emotional dependence on Amanda, the woman who had showed me love when I needed it the most. And maybe some of it was the relationship I was missing with my own daughter, who was always kept at arms length from me. 

But it still boggles my mind how naturally I fell into having a relationship with those kids. It helped that they were smart, witty, creative kids, at least when they weren’t acting out, vying for love and attention from their mom, crying out because their dad was, emotionally, lost in his own world.

When I first started going out with Amanda, the kids had several spontaneous “performances” that included some singing, some dancing, some horsing around. The performances usually ended up with them in a pile on the floor, laughing hysterically. One night, I remember being in the backyard, overlooking the L.A. basin towards the mountains, the blood red moon emerging from a lunar eclipse, the warm wind wrapping around us and bringing us close together.

Maggie was egging me on to sing Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen with her, and dance. She was so uninhibited and full of life, even though she’d been through a lot. There is a place your brain goes when you sing, dance, create. I know that when I write, or sing and play my guitar badly, my brain goes to this different place, and my pain and hurt goes away for the time being. It’s a place of refuge and solace.

I may have given them something that they needed- to see their mom happy, at least a little bit, to have a man around to replace their father, missing in action. And I thank them for that. Maybe some day I’ll be able to repay them for what they gave to me that night.

As I walked through town, I followed the scallop shells embedded in the street and the yellow spray painted arrows on the walls along the way. There always seems to be one there when you have a question of which way to go. There seems to be one rule in Spain: don’t fuck with the camino (well, maybe there are more rules, but I’m not privy to them).

If this was America, there would be arrows of all colors pointing in different directions. People would do it just to fuck with you. Maybe because god has a little less relevance in a place where money is god. So I’m hoping that in Spain no one fucks with the camino because they still have a modicum of respect for whatever god is to them, and for the pilgrims that are just trying to put one foot in front of another, and maybe learn a little something about the world, and themselves.

Not to far out of town was the wine fountain. Yes, free wine! I stopped for a sip and a few photo opportunities. After leaving (begrudgingly!) the path climbed a bit. It was cool, there was an ancient stone wall to my left, and a hedge row to my right. Beyond that were vineyards. I kept moving, there were some hills ahead, not too steep.

After a mile I entered sort of a forest of deciduous trees. The path was easy, 10 feet wide. I came across a village where I had a ham and cheese croissant, fresh squeezed orange juice, and an espresso. I walked out of town and headed down into the wide valley of rolling hills and wheat fields.

I walked for awhile with Ciara, a young Italian girl who was traveling with her 3 friends. It was getting hotter. Ciara told me that she was on the camino to make a new start. She didn’t get into details but seemed a little sad for a moment. I told her I was making a new beginning too, difference was she had her whole life in front of her. She laughed, and agreed that life could be worse.

After that i was walking alone for a good while, thought I might catch Cormac. At the very least I thought I might meet up with him at the end of the day. It didn’t matter, I was perfectly fine alone, in fact at times I prefer it. It made me think about Amanda and I, and relationships in general. I guess if you have a healthy relationship, both parties should be OK to be alone, knowing the other party is there for them.

Part of the reason you’re with them is simply that it’s more fun. It’s more enjoyable to experience life with someone. And if you’re paying attention, you can learn things from the other, and those experiences. Unfortunately, as you get older things get more complicated, you’re fragile because you’ve been hurt, so your guard is up. You think too much about why you shouldn’t…Maybe the idea is to just fuck all that, stop thinking too much. If you really love someone, just be with them. You’ll figure the rest of it out.

I passed Pasquel the laughing Belgian. We exchanged greetings and I forged on. I was now in the last stretch, and it was getting hot. I rounded a bend and ran straight into…Kento, sitting on the side of the road having a smoke. I still hadn’t seen him walking. I mean someone could have dropped him off. I had seen a horse cart a little earlier, transporting a few people. I’m still not sure if he’s actually walking the camino or if he’s being helicoptered into different points along the way. We exchanged greetings, I put on my headphones and heard a song that reminded me of Amanda.

Something there is about you that strikes a match in me
Is it the way your body moves or is it the way your hair blows free?
Or is it because you remind me of something that used to be?
Something that’s crossed over from another century?   -Bob Dylan

Finally I could see the small town I was to stay at for the night. It got hotter. Only thing was it didn’t seem the town was getting any closer. It just kept getting hotter, and my two blisters were killing me. I caught up with a French girl I had been walking with here and there during the day. We trudged up the hill to Sansol and went to the auberge there.

I went over to the market and ran into Cormac. We decided to go the extra mile (literally) to Torres del Rio. We made the right call. The auberge had a swimming pool, mostly younger kids, and a few fellow pilgrims. We checked in, put our packs down in the room, and headed down to the pool. Hey- Pilgrims deserve a cold beer and a pool party once in awhile.

As the years flew by, I guess I was always searching. But not growing up too much. Looking back, I guess I’ve always felt like somewhat of an outsider due to, will, I’m really not sure. I mean I had a clique, but no real sense of belonging. My friends and I were thrown together because we had nothing to belong to. Rag tag, piece meal….

Back to relationships. I always just fell into them, I was always just fumbling along. I never really thought any woman would be interested in me (residual effects from my youth). When it happened it was usually at a party. Although I met Amanda at a party, but by that time I was older. It was different. I wasn’t drunk, didn’t even want to be there, and only asked her out at the last minute. I just wasn’t looking.

Does anyone really know what love is anyway? I’ve been through a lot. Maybe I wasted my time. On the other hand, If it wasn’t for everything I’ve been through, I wouldn’t have met someone who I cared for deeply, and who has taught me so many lessons I need to learn. Whether she knows it or not.

Something there is about you that moves with style and grace
I was in a whirlwind, now I am in some better place
My hand’s on the sabre and you’ve picked up on the baton
Something there is about you that I can’t quite put my finger on.  -Bob Dylan

The first weeks and then, month or two with Amanda were heady. There was so much we were finding in each other that we had been missing. We clung to each other. We kept in touch, knowing what the other was doing practically every moment of the day via text, calls. We talked at night about everything, her kids, life in general, ourselves. It felt like how life was supposed to be. I loved every moment of it. I especially loved being loved again, having someone to hold, to make love to, knowing she was out there.

I guess that’s when we became sort of codependent. And it makes sense. When you’ve been hurt by others and you find someone who needs to be held, to be loved as much as you do, you hold on for dear life. At that point in time I had no idea that I was becoming so dependent on her, and that it would take a slap in the face from the hand of god to make her turn away from me, and push me out to the camino.

Smile

She was like a lot of east coast people I know- straight forward, no bullshit, tells you what’s on their mind. Jenny was smart, another noble soul (again, what the fuck is my selfish American soul doing out here rubbing shoulders with these people with purpose?). She was studying to be sort of a life coach, wanting to show people how to better there lives by looking at all aspects of their lives. A holistic approach. I figured I could use one of them, as long as they came with a .22 and a case of wine.

I got hot again so I went back in the pool, and then went to my bunk and took a 20 minute nap. Cormac woke me up to go see the church behind the hotel, a Knights Templar church. It was supposed to be open for another 15 minuets. When we got there the door was locked, but a sign on the door said to call Maria. We did. No answer. We gave up and went to dinner, upstairs behind the hotel.

We sat down at a big table with a bunch of pilgrims. Sven, a 30 year old special needs teacher. Michael the German, Chahab the chauvinist (he made a few misogynistic jokes, the intended humor lost in translation), his friend Alex , Pasquel the Smiling Belgian French teacher, and Jenny from Cologne.

It was a fun, pilgrim experience, 10 of us at the same table trading stories. A few bottles of Rioja came with the dinners so we drank up. Everyone was joking around, Pasquel joked that he tried to be a racist once but people were so kind that he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

I excused myself after eating and retired to the bar to finish the nights blog. As I was agonizing over a few words, who should show up out of nowhere but Kento. He was with a Korean woman I had not met, and Hee-geun (the illustrator). Her and I chatted, I said hello to Kento, and they left.

I decided that Kento is like the coyote in Native American myth. They’re knowns for their their crafty intelligence, stealth, and voracious appetite. In fact they often appear out of nowhere. The coyote demonstrates the dangers of negative behaviors like greed, recklessness, and arrogance. He’s often slovenly, dirty, and drunk. He is a comic trickster character, and his lack of wisdom gets him into trouble while his cleverness gets him back out.

Lets’ see. Kento indeed seems to appear out of nowhere (I still haven’t seen him walking), I saw him laying down having a smoke on the camino, Cormac spotted him sleeping in a field, after I left the bar he bought a round of beers for Cormac and Hee-geun. He chugged his and quickly bought another 2 beers for each of them. He told one person he’s a jockey, and another that he’s a jet boat racer…

I left the bar and moved back to the little bar. It was more like a little counter with 3 chairs next to a window where, during operating hours, the woman who checked people into the auberge would also serve as bartender, passing beers through the window.

The night was still warm and I finished writing, just as a French guy was sitting down for a smoke. He regaled me of his stories of the Camino (he had been a few times before) and gave me some tips. I was exhausted so I bid him adieu and headed back to my bunk for a good nights sleep, sans George Winston with a hip hop beat.

The next morning I left with Cormac a little after 6 to beat the afternoon heat. We never planned to really travel together, and/or wake up at the same time, but for these first days on the Camino, the heat of the day necessitated waking up early so we were usually on the road around the same time. In addition, we seemed to travel at about the same speed.

We walked out through the town, down the cobblestone streets, past the Knights Templar church. The road took us though the thin streets of the town, 3 stories of old Spanish homes on both sides of us. The lane we were on got steep, so I looked down at my feet, and at the ancient stones we were walking on, and looked above me and saw the silhouette of screaming swifts as we walked the streets of Torres del Rio in the golden early morning light.

We walked downhill through the outskirts of town and were quickly into farmland – wheat and grapes. We were getting close to Rioja, in fact our destination for the day was Lagrano, the heart of Rioja. We turned around and watched the sunrise over the ancient city, like pilgrims may have centuries ago. They probably weren’t listening to music on an iPod (which I only do occasionally in deference to the camino) and carrying a MacBook Air.

After walking a little further I told Cormac to move ahead. I needed to take a break and apply some sunscreen. It was quiet. I was alone. Part of the reason I came out here. Its funny, before getting together with Amanda I was alone. I was used to it, enjoyed it at times. I was moving forward with trying to be a writer. But I felt I was only giving 80%, I was never giving all I needed to give. Story of my life. Moving forward with the writing thing, but never fully giving what I needed to give. I never needed to write.

But somewhere along the line after I got to know Amanda, I got to the point where I had to write, there was no choice, even though she was a constant distraction- a good one, for many reasons.

And in fact, just like the decision to walk the camino was not a choice, to write about it was never a choice either. I simply cannot find a good enough way to describe how walking the camino was never a choice, it just suddenly became a fact. I only wavered once in my decision, when I quickly realized I would not be meeting my commitment to Hannah, even though I’m sure she would be fine with it. But I subsequently found out that her and Janice would be making their yearly summer pilgrimage to stay with Janice’ parents. And lo and behold, this time they were going to spend 5 weeks, long enough for me to walk. I took it as a sign.

Again, I truly think this is another gift Amanda has given me, why she’s in my life, whether she knows it or not. It might just be that we come into each others lives for a reason, and that is to share, grow, and learn. And if you love that other person, it’s easier to accept the lessons they are confronting you with, the ones that maybe you don’t want to face.

She is part of the reason writing has moved front and center in my life. And it’s not just the act of writing. Obviously, this blog is part travelogue, part confessional. My relationship with Amanda has forced me to confront the truth about my past. And it’s part of the reason I’m out here- to get back to center and not to be so dependent on another, no matter how much I think I may need them. To understand what it is to have a mature relationship where you love yourself first.

I walked on, and we hit one of the few towns (Viana) that was on my itinerary that day. I stopped at the cathedral in Viana and found Cormac having lunch across from yet another beautiful cathedral, where Pasquel the laughing Belgian was taking a break. I left before they were finished, wanting to move on.

Leaving Viana I met two woman out for a walk who gave me a spirited “Hola, Buenos Dias, Buen Camion”. It looked like they were out for morning walk. I walked between houses, down alleys, and then into open fields again. I thought about why I was here, and how my life would be when I got back. I thought about a song by John Gorka:

You fill your clothes with keys and damned responsibilities
trading the maybe for the sure.
Freedom for freedom, call that an even scheme
Give me time to wonder and to dream
I’ll take the money
They’ll take the time
Down to the Land of the bottom line.

I have a few possibilities to toil at my old profession- maybe get a job or two from a few folks I used to work with. But in an ideal world I wouldn’t have to pursue them. I want to focus on writing. It’s what I want to do with the rest of my life. But we all know how life works. It’s easy to be idealistic out here, but I know that once I get back, remove my boots, and walk the well worn paths I’ve trod on back home, the vagaries of my old life will pull and tug at me, trying to lock me back into the cage I’ve built for myself. I just have to convince myself…hopefully the camino will provide me with an answer…

Cormac caught back up with me, we walked into Logrono together, stumbling on a beautiful fountain for foot soaking, built for us pilgrims. We whipped off our shoes and socks and luxuriated. My blisters thanked me.

We walked over the bridge into Logrono (pretty much every Spanish city or town has an old stone bridge leading into it). Logrono is a large town, a mix of old and new. I decided to splurge on a hotel room hoping to get some extra writing done, and invited Cormac to take the other bed.

We went to a  cafe where I could research hotels and Cormac could write in his journal. Cormac looked out the window and saw…Kento. Who the fuck else? I swear, he’s being teleported to wherever I am. He is the zen coyote patron saint of our camino. I swiveled around on my chair and…he was gone. Cormac said he was walking with a pack. I don’t believe him…

I found a hotel for cheap that was centrally located thanks to my friend Cathy who loves this part of Spain and has been here many times (thanks Cathy!). Once again, the camino provides…

Cormac and I checked into the hotel and walked the streets, deciding to forego the usual pilgrims meal and instead try a few tapas places and get a glass of wine or two. We had a great time, and slept well in the quietness.

I think it was the first time Amanda and I went out of town together. We did some wine tasting in Santa Ynez. It was fun being a “wanna be Sommelier”- something my wife or her lawyer called me in one of the divorce proposals they had sent (it looked kind of funny, seeing that on a legal form. I work at a wine bar one or two noghts a week). Didn’t know that was the sort of statement you filed with the court. I wanted to write back a letter that started with: Dear Bob F. Morris…the “F” stands for fucking, doesn’t it..?

We stayed in Santa Ynez valley the first night after wine tasting during the day, sipping wine and talking more about our pasts, our present, and the crazy, mixed up lives we had been living over the past year.The next day we drove to Santa Barbara and stayed at a place near the beach that I had found online. It was a small place, and when we checked in the owner of the place was manning the front desk. Frank was a jovial guy, full of suggestions on where to eat, what to do.

When I handed him my ID, he giggled. Amana and I both look young for our age. And now Frank knew that I was 57, 14 years older than Amanda, although she could probably pass for 35. So, Frank must have assumed…well you can figure out what Frank assumed. It had come up before in conversations with friends, and I was always cagey. I had probably implied that I was younger than 57. So of course Frank made the requisite joke about her being my daughter.

When we went back to the car we were talking about Franks reaction. I could have probably talked my way around it (Amanda wasn’t pressing the issue) but I figured it was time to come clean. I told her and she took it in stride. We agreed that, as you get older, age doesn’t matter as much. We had a fun dinner and night together and headed home the next day. I’ll always remember Frank, that weekend together. In the end, it’s memories like these that tell our stories, and breathe life into our short time on this planet.

A little bit about my dad:

We saw it coming. He was 10 years older. A cancer scare a few years before had woken everyone up, but not really. We never really wake up do we? We see things, we admit things, we recognize things, but we always have this inkling that we aren’t really feeling, experiencing, touching life.

It was around Christmas. I have video of him with my beautiful 10 month old daughter in his arms, Janice standing by, a big smile on her face. She was proud to have dad see his only granddaughter before he died. He was already in the wheelchair, sitting in the kitchen with a blanket on his lap. I zoomed in, the closeup shows a gaunt remnant of a once strong, vibrant, philospher- king man holding her up and looking into her eyes, beaming like he would live forever. My dad was gone in another few weeks.

The hospice workers were nice and thoughtful, still it seemed a little strange to have strangers in the house for such a profound and personal experience. I didn’t realize things would be handed over to us in the end to witness the last few steps alone.

I stayed on, past New Years. My brother showed up a week later. As my dad got weaker, he was pretty much bound to the hospital bed that had been wheeled into the extra bedroom. He would occasionally roust himself and insist on going to the bathroom, supported by my brother, myself, or my mom.

After his eyesight went and he was essentially blind (really, does this disease have to steal your dignity piece by piece?) I got in the habit of turning on a Jazz CD my he had always liked. It’s on my iPod and I hear it from time to time.

I wasn’t there when he moved on, only my brother (we’re twins) and my mom were (my brother and I were partners in a small company, one of us had to head back to the office). When the inevitable call came from my mom and I hung up, I thought about the time 8 months prior when I was driving down the 405 freeway and my dad called to tell me that he had cancer and chosen to forego chemotherapy. He said that he thought 85 years on this earth were enough and he figured it was time to move on.

The other thing I thought of was the time, back home in Whittier California, when I was washing the VW bug him and mom had given my brother and I to share over the summer before selling it and going off to college. It was one of those warm breeze, smell of cut grass, bright southern California summer Saturday afternoons when all of the mysteries and magic of life lay out in front of you.

I was putting the finishing touches on the car, getting ready to round up a few friends and dash off into the mad, crazy summer night with all the hope, sound, and fury of kids that age. My dad was coming from somewhere (probably the hardware store) and stopped to admire my work. I told him about where I was going and what I was up to. After pausing a moment, he looked at me and said…”Well Mark, just remember to take it easy. But take it!”

Thats how I best remember my dad.

We didn’t find anything open so we trundled on. It was already 24 centigrade as we walked the modern streets of Lograno, the sun rising behind the city. After we crossed the bridge, the city streets gave way to parks, and then wheat fields and some vineyards. Then the path wound up by nice shaded park. We turned a corner and a beautiful lake spread out before us. Reeds, calm, grassy, cool.

We walked out of the park and onto the side of a highway. After turning away from the highway we soldiered on through some healthy vineyards, much larger than before. We were in the heart of Rioja. The blisters on my left foot were making their presence known. In fact they were screaming “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING WALKING 25 KILOMETERS A DAY WITH A 25 POUND PACK ON YOUR BACK!?

Cormac and I had brunch in Navarette, about half way to our final destination of the day, Ventoza. As usual we met some fellow pilgrims: Pasquel the laughing Belgian, Renee from Paris. I got some much needed cafe con leche and a sort of breakfast sandwich, with a few fried eggs and ham on the local pan cateto. Cormac ordered a breakfast dish but they were out of potatoes and he was a little bummed. The Irony wasn’t lost on me.

We left Navarette, walking along the cobblestoned streets and out onto the highway. I told Cormac to move ahead, preferring to walk a little slower. He had told me that his girlfriend was to meet him in Burgos and walk with him for a week. I was happy for him, a little jealous (I wished someone was meeting me in Spain), but looking forward to meeting Sinead at the same time, maybe treating them to a nice dinner, then parting ways. Besides, it would give me a chance to put myself out there, and meet more pilgrims.

I realized that I had become just a little bit dependent on Cormac. He seemed to like researching the camino bible (John Brierley’s comprehensive guide to the camino- I recommend it) and was always considering where we might stop for the night (those times when one of us would catch the other during the day and end up walking together). I had the guide, but didn’t need to refer to it much because Cormac was doing the work for me. I also didn’t have to take responsibility for decisions which was fine- I was always spending a few hours at the end of the day getting the blog together which leaves me little time to consult Mr.Brierley.

So after I leave Cormac and Sinead, I’ll be on my own. Alone. And I’m looking forward to taking full responsibility for myself, and the decisions I make. I guess it’s a lesson in codependence. And it’s one of the main things I have come here to work on, due to the emotional reliance I had on Amanda, amongst many other things from my past.

A few kilometers out of Ventoza, we began a slow, constant climb. Now the vineyards were expansive, and I could see our destination in the distance. We had decided on staying short (10 k) of Brierley’s recommendation due to the heat and my blisters.

My blisters were a constant reminder of how I barged onto the camino, with little forethought. Like most Americans I just bought a bunch of shit from Amazon, and I threw it in a backpack that I got that from REI. We are sort of a big, boisterous, impatient, loud, arrogant country. Maybe a little unrefined. But these are things that also help make it great, awesome, wonderful.

Maybe America needs a lesson in grace. Grace is one thing Im learning on the camino. What is grace? The first things that comes to mind is “By the grace of god”. Maybe it’s living a life that is sort of imbued by the hand of god.  Not necessarily the god that’s been transmogrofied into something we can’t understand or relate to. I’m talking more about the god that is best represented, to us westerners, by Jesus I guess. That dude (as well as, it seems to me, most other prophets and “spiritual teachers” – Buddha, Allah et.al.) seemed to have more to do with love than anything else. But as I’ve said before, what the fuck do I know, anyway?

Anyway, I think grace is about leaning a little more towards the spiritual side of us, the light and airy. Maybe even the optimistic (pessimism is so much easier!). As opposed to base, instinctual side of us. The rough part, vs the light and airy. Its the mind vs the heart. Its man vs woman. Maybe in the end it’s about love being the driving force behind our lives, instead of the other things that always distract us.

Grace seems to manifest itself in this way: it’s a bull in a china shop vs. a ballerina. Some of us live more graceful lives than others. The graceful ones are the ones that are positive, the ones who give, the one’s who always have something nice to say. We have to grow into grace. Its kind of like wisdom.

I think I stumbled upon grace, or at least recognized it as such, when I took out my ipod. I thought that maybe grace is taking a breath, looking at your tangled headphones and slowly untangling them instead of pulling and yanking at the chords thinking they will magically untangle. Grace is, instead of hurrying down the camino to get to some predestined place, accepting the fact that you will get to where you are going, even if it’s not to that place you had in mind, which by the way, leaves you more open to the things you can see and experience there.

If you’re lucky you meet someone who opens your eyes to grace. Amanda reminded me of what grace is, which in turn led me to the camino. She’s been through a lot, and still she accepts every day and what it brings, and is working on fixing the scars of the past, helping her kids return to a semblance of normalcy.  I’m hoping that every day here I’ll learn a little more grace. Unfortunately, sometimes it’s not easily found.

Cormac and I arrived in Ventoza as it reached 33 centigrade in the shade. The auberges wasn’t open, so we sat down on the street and commiserated with our fellow pilgrims. It may have been hot, my blisters screaming insanities, but it felt good to arrive. Every day on the camino is a day of departures and arrivals. There’s no need for goodbyes. As in life, you move on, realizing you may cross paths with that person again, or not. The difference is that when you’ve thrown your soul to the universe and decided to walk 470 miles across Spain, the moments you spend with others on a similar journey will stay with you forever.

pick a lucky star
be it near or far
just pretend on the long nights that i’ve gone away

i can see it too
and wish the same as you
a different star for every long night that i’ve gone away

how many tomorrows do we have
how much precious time
how much precious time       -Darden Smith

A story, maybe it’s about grace, maybe it’s a little magical, or maybe it’s just a story. It is a story about those worse off than you and I.

Anyone who’s reading this is probably fine. You probably have a decent job, are making your way in the world. I’ve always thought I had empathy, and for some reason I would always stop when I saw a group of handicapped people walking the streets of my hometown and wonder how they coped with living in this crazy mixed up world.

So one morning I was in New York (Janice was from New York and still had a small place there when we got together) and I woke up with a fully formed concept for a Public Service Announcement for the Special Olympics in my brain. I have no idea where it came from.

I drew out a storyboard (I’m not a drawer- I used to be but looking back I realized it was always a struggle, between my right and left brain). But I did it. It meant something to me for some strange reason. I filed it away and went back to California, to work.

I had a director who had done work for Nike, did sports stuff. I arranged to get a free 35mm camera. This was in May, most of the Special Olympics were over for the summer. But I found a Special Olympics in Vancouver and convinced them to let us shoot there. Myself, the director, an Assistant Cameraman and my brother drove from Seattle to Vancouver and shot footage.

Later, a sweet friend edited the footage together for us. We called the agents in town and found a biker who was getting started doing voice overs and he laid down the lines I had written. We cut it to an Enya song, in fact the same song that was used in a Ron Howard movie. This was at a time when you paid a lot of money to use a popular song in a commercial. Somehow, my brother got ahold of Enyas’ people and they gave us permission to use the song for free if it was ever broadcast.

Part of the reason we did it was selfish: it was a spot we could put on the directors reel to sell him. We sent it off to Vancouver and got a nice note in return. Life moved on. 2 years later we got a call from the new director of the SO in Vancouver. It seems he found our PSA sitting on a shelf. He said that the concept was exactly how they had decided to portray these athletes: not someone to feel sorry for, but as heroes. Which is exactly what i had written. Not by any plan, it’s just what the universe had communicated to me that morning in New York. It ran for two years. They sent me a sweatshirt that I still wear to this day.

I don’t know what opened me up to hearing the voice that gave me that idea. I sure as well wasn’t interested in listening at the time. Like many of us, I was fighting against it, refusing to grow up. Its taken me a long time to really start that process. So now i would just like to give thanks: to Mike, to Gary, to Chuck, to Jennifer, to that Biker, to Enya, to the SO who unwittingly gave me a chance to grow, at least a little bit. I have no other reason to tell this story than maybe to pat myself on the back. Oh, well…maybe to remind you, gentle reader, to give a little, to reach out and lend a helping hand next time you get the chance.

After 4 or 5 months Amanda and recognized we needed to be apart. At least not as dependent on each other as we had been. In fact I suggested I shouldn’t stay over as often. That worked for a few days and then we were back in each others arms full time. Amanda was dealing with so many things at the time- getting a career going, dealing with her kids who had been damaged by the divorce and a MIA father. I tried to help, but Amanda is the type of woman who needs to fix things herself. She finally found the strength to begin to distance herself from me and the dependance she had on me. This is what i wrote in my journal at the time:

We both needed each other. And I loved/love it. Im sure you didn’t intend it, but somewhere in the back of your mind you thought I could replace your husband. But I can’t. And I think you see that now. Which is part of the reason you are re-prioritizing. That and work. You’re picking yourself up and getting back to the you that you used to be- someone who was self-sufficient (even though you were married), someone who felt true and authentic to by taking 100% responsibility for yourself and your kids lives.

It’s nothing you were trying to do. It’s just who you are. And it’s awesome and an utter necessity that you are getting back to that place. And then there’s my journey. I am seeing through the fog, looking at the banks across the river. I think I’ve figured out a few things about myself and us. I am still working on becoming stronger. Don’t get me wrong, I am much stronger than when I met you. As we got to know each other you saw some of my weaknesses. And being the nurturer, you held me. And helped me. And help me still. Even when you don’t know it. Im not like you. I can’t shut things on and off.

I still have some work to do. I think I have a handle on my where I need to go. And some days I am so good. I can do anything. And then I fall. And then I have to crawl back up. During that time I can’t offer you all of the strength you might need. But Im getting better. One day soon I won’t need to crawl back out. I will have healed. That may not soothe you at this moment, but I hope you’ll wait.

I was a necessary, welcome part of that old you. You needed me, I needed you. And now we’re both changing. And for the better. Back to where we started, trying to find our authentic selves. And I guess I question whether or not there is a place for me there.

Before dinner Cormac had chatted up the proprietress of the auberges. According to her, pilgrims these days ain’t shit. They aren’t out here for the right reason. Apparently she knows the right reason. I posit that if you’ve come out here to walk 470 miles in this heat, just the fact that you are going to go through, well, getting here, pain, blisters, etc puts you here for “the right reason”.

No matter what you are going to have to, at the very least, look inside yourself, dig deep and reach for the things that you need to simply get to the end of your day, your destination. No matter what you’ll come away with a better understanding of yourself, physically, mentally, and possibly spiritually. Hell, I figure anyone who’s out here for whatever reason should at least get a few points on the cosmic scorecard.

After dinner, I was on the phone when Cormac told me he was going to leave early. He’s got a little catching up to do – he’s using Brierleys (‘A Guidebook to the Camino” by John Brierley) itinerary, which means he has to walk an extra 10 k tomorrow. Brierley is god, or el diablo, depending on your mood and feeling about his sometimes curmudgeonly opinions about things.

Since I was on the phone I really only got the gist of what he was saying- that he would be leaving early and he said we’d meet up in Burgos. He needed to get there by Saturday to meet his girlfriend who, I think I mentioned, was going to walk with him for a week. So I would be on my own the next morning.

The Portland girls woke me up at 430 (Barras bunk was directly above mine). I couldn’t get back to sleep so I followed suit. I had to apply new Compeed  (like Brierley, a godsend or a curse, depending on your experience) to my blisters. Compeed is a weird rubbery bandaid frilled with some sort of emulsion. So my preparations to get out the door took a little longer than usual.

I left the auberge and it was a clear morning with a full moon as I walked down the windy streets of Ventosa alone. It was beautiful. I looked for the little spray painted yellow arrows that marked the way and followed them out of town. The path led along vineyards, big wineries with warehouses, fancy signs, wine tasting! Maybe some other time.

Being alone in the dark by myself I was a little apprehensive. There were enough signs- it seems like every time I looked up I would see the yellow spray painted camino arrow or the “official” tiles often laid into the street. But still, with blisters on my feet (even though I felt good, strong) I was hoping to see some indication that I was heading towards Najera, the next town along the way.

I was also a bit concerned since I hadn’t consulted Brierley. I guess when you’re in a strange country and you’re walking across it you should consult a map once in awhile. This was a good test though. I would be independent, not relying on Cormac for direction. not that flying to Madrid (having never been to Europe) and embarking on a 470 mile walk across Spain doesn’t show some independence.

As mentioned, the days I had traveled with Cormac had allowed me to defer to him for logistics, but I will be on my own once we hit Burgos when Cormac meets up with his girlfriend. It’s funny that things work out. Cormac and I ended up traveling a good chunk of the first quarter of the camino together, and will part ways soon. It was probably good for me to travel with someone this first chunk, allowing myself to ease into this otherworldly (for me) way of being, and then be forced to go it alone. And this is another example of, well I can only say, what makes the Camino special. It seems like it provides for you what you need, what you are looking for (even though you may not know it) gently, when you’re ready. With grace.

One of the reasons I came here was to move towards a place, within myself, where I am no longer codependent, and can fully move my life forward, be 100 % responsible for my actions, and decisions. It’s part of the reason Amanda said we should both have some space during the summer, so both of us could get our shit together.

At the time I didn’t want to believe her but, again, I knew she was right. I don’t know how to explain it, but I have never known a woman who can look inside me like she does, and help me become the man I know I can be, even after other’s have convinced me that I’m worthless. And that’s probably why I fell in love with her. Well besides the fact that she’s beautiful, sexy, smart, and loves to laugh.

As the sky got light and the moon got covered by clouds, I was sure I was going the right way but still had that voice in the back of my head throwing out his fucking two- cents worth now and then: “You haven’t seen anyone, you must not be on the camino”, “You may be on the path, but you’re going the wrong direction”….This is one way, it seems to me, codependency manifests itself.

That voice in the back of my head knows I didn’t look at the map. So the voice in the back of my head is questioning my knowledge, my insecurities. And it’s right, I had deferred responsibility to Cormac, I should have taken a look at the map when he told me he’d be leaving early. So the voice in the back of my head is just trying to protect me from harm, the unknown- as I mentioned I didn’t consult the map so he had some foundation for telling me I was a fool. But again, it’s the scared little child throwing rude comments my way. I reasoned with him, and we made peace. I continued on.

For the hell of it I stopped to look at the GPS. I found that the camino is actually marked on the map. As I was checking it out, who should walk up but Cormac who had lended up leaving after me since the Portland girls had given me an early wake up call. We wandered into Najera together and had breakfast after crossing the requisite bridge into the town. A pilgrim who had walked through the night to experience walking the camino under a full moon stumbled in to have a cafe con leche and we spoke to him briefly about his adventure.

We walked out of Najera, and all of a sudden we were in the hills. In a short time we got to the crest and looked over the other side into a long wide open valley. We walked for 8 more kilometers of rolling hills, wheat, some vines. We hit Azofra, another small town where we stopped for a break and met two Californians we chatted with for a little while. 

Speaking of underwear, I had my doubts about my underwear selection for the walk. I packed 4 pair of Ethika underwear (2 pair were given to me by a lovely woman I know, and I bought the other two). They’re tight fitting, snug. I was taking a chance though, I thought they may be too warm, make me sweat in…we’ll you get the picture. Fact is, they were the perfect choice. They don’t make me sweat, they’re comfortable, and they feel good. So, if you’re going to hike across Spain, even in the middle of summer…

We left Azofra and were quickly into walking through wheat fields and rolling hills. After a few miles we came to a guy selling fruit, cokes, etc by the side of the road. Anna and Pasquel were there and Anna told how one of the woman at the auberge we stayed at the night before (the one who I spoke with while waiting to get into the auberge, and who had kindly brought my pack inside for me when the auberge opened early and Cormac and I were at the local cafe) had gotten a call saying her daughter had died in a car wreck.

When I heard this, I was overwhelmed, I couldn’t even breathe, I started choking and spitting up coke. Cormac had to slap me on the back. I had to walk away. I was crying. I realized I had related this story to myself. I too have lost a daughter. She is twelve, almost a teen so she does have some attitude. But she has been distanced, I feel, from me by other things, beyond my control.

Amanda had told me that I would have to make peace with my daughter and mend my relationship with her before I could move forward with my life. And I know she’s right again. So another one of my main objectives for coming out here was to reflect on that, come to terms with it, and figure out how to proceed. Hearing this story out here seemed yet another way for the camino to nudge me in the right direction.

We left there and walked a relatively straight shot thorough more wheat fields. Finally we got to Cireuna. We walked through a few tracts of houses that looked relatively new, but abandoned like out of some twilight zone episode. It was the first city I had ran across in Spain that felt sad. Sad and desolate.

We kept walking, still it seemed that no lived in this crazy sad town, it was like the city didn’t want any people there and no people sure as hell wanted to be in that city. But we finally did find one place open for lunch. There was one woman manning the bar (and making the food I think) who had the personality of a bag of hammers. In fact, when I ordered she didn’t even acknowledge me, so I figured it was a 50/50 shot I would even get any food. It did arrive, and was actually quite a good chorizo sandwich, although later I questioned the wisdom of having chorizo in the middle of walking 25 kilometers on a 95 degree day.

We ran into Mike and Diane, who we had met in Azofra earlier in the day. They were the first Americans I had come run across, besides the Portland girls. They had some roots in the South Bay where I’m from, so we had something in common. They weren’t walking the entire camino, but had walked a section before. It felt good touching base with someone from the states.

We said goodbye and headed out and onto the highway, then into grapes and wheat. It was a slow steady. The sky was light, but overcast. We walked a few miles, and then along a highway, then onto another broad road through fields. Got a few drops of rain, put the rain covers on our packs, which of course made the rain stop.

We left and ran into the Portland girls again, and walked with them for awhile. It was a straight shot to Santo Domingo. When we got to the outskirts of town, we stopeed for a moment to rest. We had walked 30 k, my blisters were hurting, and Cormac was getting his first taste of them . Sometimes when your spent, tired, and in pain all you can do is laugh, which we did as we walked into town. We ducked into the first auberge, climbed into our bunks, and fell asleep.

Just try to live each and
every precious moment
don’t be discouraged by the future,
forget about the past.

between a laugh and a tear,
smile in the mirror as you walk by
Thats as good as it can get for us,
ain’t no reason to stop trying
                 -John Mellencamp

“At the start of therapy, Mr West presented with acute distress and anxiety due to marital discord. His wife had labeled him the problem and “sent” him to therapy. The treatment is supportive psychotherapy with a focus on issues of self-esteem building, trauma recovery, codependency, and adjustment to ongoing, major life changes. In the couple relationship the wife has been berating, controlling, and humiliating Mr. West for years. Though Mr. West has never used the work “abusive”, I maintain that his wife was emotionally abusive…

-Psychological assessment, 2/10/15

Janice suggested I go to therapy. I’ve always a proponent of it (but had never been) so I agreed. i think (of course I’m just guessing) she thought I would see the errors of my ways, admit I was the one causing discord in our marriage and would begin to acquiesce to her demands.

Much later, after we had been separated for a few months, we met in the park near my house. We talked about the separation, Hannah, other things. Janice asked me if I would consider moving back in. I said I would if she would consider therapy.

I was served divorce papers that evening.

4 or 5 months after we started going out, Amanda and I made another trip to Santa Barbara. We went wine tasting to a few places in Santa Barbara, had a great, fun dinner (best brussels sprouts ever!) and then retired to the Fess Parker Inn. We had a little more wine and were sitting on the balcony feeling the warm wind wash over us.

I think at that time, I felt closer to her than I ever had to anyone. It’s funny though, I knew that it wasn’t just her. I had grown up a lot over the past year, and I think others may have shown me the same, Maybe even Janice, but I just wasn’t ready to accept it. To accept love.

But I also knew that I had never known anyone like her. We shared things, we talked about things I had never discussed with another woman. She has a deep, intuitive, soulful nature. She taught me things, showed me parts of myself that I didn’t know were there. Parts that needed mending. And no matter how hard I fought her on those things (I didn’t want to admit to them), in the end she was always right.

Out on the balcony we talked about life, everything. And she started crying. And she told me how much she loved me. And she started making plans that included me. Flying to Slovenia to visit her 93 year old grandmother, to Switzerland to see her daughter.

But what I learned over time is that whenever we got close, she would retreat into some place that I wasn’t allowed to go. I wanted to, to help her, but the walls were thick, the barriers impenetrable. It happened more than once and I now see it for what it was. But back then, I could only see it as rejection, and the reinforcement of my own insecurities. But there, on that balcony, it was as if we were sharing our hopes and dreams for the future, the scars of our pasts, while holding on to each other for dear life in the present.

I sit at my table and wage war on myself
It seems like it’s all, it’s all for nothing
I know the barricades
And I know the mortar in the wall breaks
I recognize the weapons, I’ve used them well

Reach out for me
Hold me tight
Hold that memory
Let my machine talk to me

This is my world,and I am the World Leader Pretend
This is my life, and this is my time
I have been given the freedom to do as I see fit
It’s high time I razed the walls that I’ve constructed…
-REM      

After a few kilometers we continued on through wheat fields, down the relatively straight, paved road that ran along the highway between Logrono and Bergos. I walked with a couple from Buffalo for awhile. Retired baby boomers looking for adventure. The sky was still overcast but not threatening, the familiar rolling hills rose in distance. As I wished the couple “buen camino” and moved on, the village of Granon came into view.

We hit Granon about eight. Another old cobblestoned town, two storied, those classic Spanish balconies. Looks sort of like Hermosa Beach, at least like my place- Spanish influence, places with wrought iron balconies. We paused for a brief rest before continuing on into a pretty valley. Fields, rolling hills, rows of trees off in the distance where there must be a stream. I slowed down, and Cormac moved on ahead. 

Some of the fields were freshly mowed, golden, and about waist high. There were brightly colored plants along side of road- purple nettle, yellow dandelion type weeds, some blue flowering plants. It’s funny, nature made this land wild and man imposed his coordinated, rowed, symmetric version of nature to nourish himself.

After another 2 K I hit a big sign that showed me the way to Bergos, the next big town where Im going to take a day off. Off in the distance, beyond the wheat fields there were tree lines on top of rolling hills. It kind of reminded me of Nebraska. I was walking with Jenny, from Cologne and she told about her life. A teacher, but she was working on becoming a life coach. Sort of like a holistic therapist- helping people not only with their emotional state, but also with their physical and mental health. She would keep tabs on the person as a whole, recognizing that all aspects of ones life works together, and affects the other parts. Sounds kind of crazy to a westerner like me;).

It seems in America, we compartmentalize everything. Like a big business, which by necessity becomes more and more bureaucratic as it grows. Unfortunately, bureaucracies seem to be rather inflexible when it comes to individuals. Check out Kafka: The Trial, or The Castle. And, well, I thought that individuals (you and I) are what this country is supposed to be about.

So when individuals (read humans) are out of the picture, bureaucracies become more and more like a huge hurkin machine. And like any big machine, it gets the job done well, but sometimes it belches out smoke, makes a lot of noise, and pays no heed to anyone or anything. It just needs to get its job done. And any human emotion just mucks up the works. So it goes.

I rolled down the straight path to Viloria de la Rioja, half way in between Logrono and Burgos. I caught up with Cormac and we stopped at a place for breakfast and cafe con leche. We ate excellent the poppy/sunflower/egg sandwiches we had gotten in the last village we had stopped in.

Viloria de la Rioja is famous for being the birthplace of Saint Dominic de la Calzada, a good dude who spent all of his life in the area helping pilgrims by building bridges, making roads, etc. More importantly he made a roasted chicken dance.

As the story goes, back in the 14th century a German 18-year-old named Hugonell went on pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela with his parents. A Spanish hottie at the hostel where they were staying wanted to bang Hugonell but he rejected her advances. She was pissed so she hid a silver cup in the unsuspecting slobs bag and then informed the authorities that Hugonell has taken it. So he’s sentenced to hang in accordance with the laws of the day.

The parents sadly decide to examine their son’s body which is still hanging on the gallows. Suddenly they hear his voice –he tells them that Saint Dominic has saved his life. His parents haul ass to Santiago de Compostela to see the magistrate. The magistrate, who at the time is shoving some mashed potatoes into his mouth says: “You’ve gotta be kidding me. Your son is about as alive as this rooster and chicken I’ve been feasting on before you interrupted me.”

And in that moment, the two birds jumped from the plate and began to sing and crow happily. I assume they were doing the chicken dance. This might be something of a fable, apparently “King Herod and the Cock” is an earlier story along the same lines. I decided I’d look for roast chicken on the pilgrims menu that evening in honor of St. Dominic de la Caldaza, patron saint of roasted roosters and dancing cocks.

The road ran straight into Belorado. We met up with Sven (from dinner the other night) and his friends and rolled into town which lay in a little valley bordered by cliffs on both sides. The first auberge was sold out so we moved into the center of town to the Cuatro Cantones auberge. It was the same place that had sent out a van that gave us bottled water with the name of the place on the label- good ol’ ‘Merican style advertising. My meal at the restaurant was the best I’ve had so far, a fresh salad, paella, a bottle of wine, and dessert. Not only was it tasty, the presentation was like at an upscale California restaurant.

It was one of the nicest places I’ve stayed at. The usual bunks in a room with 20 or so others, good showers, a courtyard in the back and a pool, beautiful tiling, a great kitchen. Comfortable, family run. I slinked off to the old town square to write. I thanked the universe for bringing me to this place at this time, and for those I’ve met, and have yet to meet. And for the bottle of Rioja I had bought, that I was going to drink when I got back to the auberge. 

Such is the way of the world
You can never know
Just where to put all your faith
And how will it grow
Gonna rise up
Burning black holes in dark memories
Gonna rise up
Turning mistakes into gold
-Eddie Vedder

From my journal a few months into Amanda and my relationship:

MY LIFE WITH AMANDA

It’s crazy. She’s got 4 kids (3 at home).
And I love them. And her. And the two dogs.
It’s nothing I ever would have expected.
Nothing I ever would have wanted.
If life is supposed to teach you something, well…
It’s a swirling, roiling, mess of feelings, activity, growls, laughter, tears.
It’s dog shit on the lawn.
It’s wine and ping pong.
It’s sitting outside watching the dying ember of the day.
It’s holding hands.
It’s feeling her warm breath on my neck.
It’s life.

One of the first times i realized that something was up with my marriage was the summer Janice made arrangements to see her parents in Cape Cod, our usual summer sojourn. When our frequent flyer mileage was cashed in for tickets there were only two- for her and Hannah.

I didn’t argue about the “oversight”. By this time I had learned not to. I thought about it and decided that it would be a good time to think about things, look for work. It was a few years after the recession, and I had pretty much closed my company, having halted any sales efforts. I thought I might be able to repurpose my career.

While they were gone, I started to to think about what had happened to myself and Janice. After failing to teach Hannah to sleep alone (it worked for a little while but then one night she wouldn’t go to sleep, she kept crying, and Janice slept with her). I guess maybe everything changed that night.

I would sit in the kitchen, drinking a glass or wine or two, waiting for Hannah to fall asleep and Janice to come upstairs. Never happened. I brought it up several times, still, after that, I pretty much sat at that kitchen counter every night and went to bed alone. Those days did produce several fine youtube videos that I wrote, shot, and edited at my kitchen counter as I drank myself to sleep. 

Then in the spring, I met Craig, who would become my good friend, and whom I subsequently heard was partially responsible for breaking up my marriage. He lived across the street and was only a few years younger than I. Most of the other guys- fathers- I naturally socialized with were at least 10 years younger.

Craig just happened to stop by one night. I had known him in passing, but never really got to know him. He wasn’t one of the fathers on the street, just single guy locked to his work, who lived across the street. I joked that he started coming over to my house because his best friend had moved 2 blocks away, which was true, and it was simply a shorter walk to my place to have a beer. He’s an engineer after all and would appreciate the efficiency of it all. My nickname for him is hypotenuse man.

We became good friends, and instead of sitting at my counter alone, we went over to his ramshackle deck across the street and drank beer, often tackling the worlds problems and pretty much solving them. If you want the answers I’ll email them to you. In addition, he was someone I could talk things over with to help me understand better what was happening to me.

When spring turned into summer, and Janice and Hannah left, I started to think more about our fighting, the marriage, why Janice was treating me like she was. I mean I know that money was an issue (it seemed like it always was) but I tried to remain positive, looking at the big picture, recognizing that we were better off than most, and that everyone had lost money from the recession, and that maybe we needed to understand that the world had been shaken at the foundation and was different, and that we should look at things a little differently.

That suggestion ended up in many fights, and much pain and hurt. When I look back I now see that I was bullied and belittled. But as I’ve said before, I hold nothing against Janice, I think this was simply the way she learned how to deal with the world, the things she had no (or maybe was losing) control over. But at the time, all I could feel was a numbness, and a sadness.

What’s funny is, at that time, I really didn’t understand what was happening to me. But one morning I woke up and there was a song in my head. No not one of those that you’ve heard that keeps replaying over and over. Like the Special Olympics PSA I told of earlier, these were lyrics to a song that had been written in my brain overnight.

I jotted the lyrics down, grabbed my guitar (the one I play badly) and strummed some chords that I thought might go with the lyrics. I had never really wrote a song before but this one had just spilled out. What get’s me to this day is that the song revealed the state of my subconscious mind at the time, things I had not articulated, I had not recognized, that I had certainly not come to terms with. It was as if my subconscious was trying to tell me something.

Maybe I didn’t get to go to Cape Cod that summer, but I was given this song for what it’s worth. I play if for people and they always laugh. It’s a little mean spirited, so at some point (maybe during the forgiveness portion of this blog alluded to in the title) I will put it away, never to be heard from again. But for now, please enjoy it, and have a laugh on me.