Three days ago, when I landed in Boston after a few nights of little sleep, the move of my apartment into storage, and a bad case of the monthlies, I was so depleted that the thought of simply flying to Spain seemed physically impossible, especially since I hadn´t finished packing and I didn´t have all my gear…yet.
Somehow, with the logistical support of family, I managed to get on the plane yesterday. It arrived this morning, I picked up my trekking poles from the luggage carousel, activated my European phone, bought breakfast at an airport market and a bus ticket to Pamplona. Somehow, despite my fogged brain, my Spanish language skills rose to the occasion. Five hours later I staggered into the Pamplona bus terminal with a whopping case of jet lag, itself a liminal condition. My intestines, too, are in a liminal space: they can´t decide whether to hold on or let go. At least the bathrooms (with rectangular toilets, minus seats) are close by.
When I boarded the bus, I wasn´t sure if I´d spend the night here or press on to Roncesvalles on the daily 6pm bus and then onto St. Jean Pied de Port, a Basque village in France that is the start of the Camino. But, arriving here, I noticed other Pilgrims gathering. We´re easy to spot, with packs on our backs and poles or walking sticks strapped on, a not-so-secret society. With the possibility of sharing a taxi into France likely, I decided to keep traveling, rather than spend tomorrow in Pamplona. Instead, I will wake up in France, let my body catch up to its new location and again wonder what on earth I´ve gotten myself into.