spain

Chapter Eight: The Camino Part I

~ Julie M. ~ Leave a comment

I say part one because it’s important to first establish that there will be a part two one day. However it will have to wait as I unfortunately sprained my ankle (again – did I mention I sprained it in France?) as I headed out to start day two of the 115 km hike to the holy city where Saint James the Apostle is allegedly burried.

Let me back up. I arrived in Santiago de Compostela on a beautiful Tuesday morning after a less beautiful Monday night spent in El Prat airport. The fact that I found a broken bench with missing armrests in between them told me I might be lucky enough to sleep a bit. The jackhammering that began at midnight and went on through 4:00 a.m., however, told me otherwise. In any case, I did make it to my final destination, albeit somewhat sleepy. I dropped off some excess baggage (which is also allegorical to my life at the present moment) to store during my hike, received my first ‘buen camino’ and avoided looking around as I did not want to ‘spoil the surprise.’ From Santiago I took a bus to Lugo, and from Lugo to Sarria, where I collected my camino passport and hunkered down for the night, excited to start the next day at the crack of dawn… er, 9:00 a.m.

Sarria begins roughly at kilometer 115 of the trail and the route is broken down into approximately five days of 20-25 km each. According to my weather app, day one was the only day with under 90% chance of rain so I was eager to clock at least 20 of those km in the nice weather and perhaps break down the rest of the trip into shorter distances as I was in no rush.

Day one was magical. The trail was breathtaking. Rolling hills, farms, fields, tiny villages and small forests were some of the things I passed. I stopped after my first hour at a small trailside albergue to have a coffee and pick up a ‘shell’ to strap onto my backpack, as is custom. I stopped in an open field of wildflowers to do some yoga and stretch out. And I walked. It was about 5.5 hours and 22 km, plus a few rest breaks. I was not for one second bored. When I strolled (read: stumbled in, huffing and puffing) into Portomarin around 3:30 p.m., one thing was certain: I needed a victory beer. I felt elated and also exhausted. After my beer I checked into a hostel and napped before dragging myself up for some food. I saw a friend I had met at  my first albergue, Fernando; a fifty-something man from a town in central Spain which I cannot pronounce. We chatted a bit about soccer, bulls and ancient American cultures. And I went to sleep.

I woke up feeling good on morning two and left to begin my hike at a whopping 7:45 a.m. (eager to beat the rain). However, destiny had another plan for me as I felt a familiar roll and snap of my ankle about 100 meters from the hostel. I hobbled back, trying to be optimistic that I could just rest for one day and then return but it soon became clear to me that this was the end of my camino… for now.

The pain wasn’t too bad but the disappointment was fierce. I realized I needed to come up with a plan B that required little walking so I could finally heal and get on with my trip in one solid piece. So currently I am on a urine-scented bus to collect my things in Santiago and will by flying out tomorrow morning to stay with Jasper’s parents for a week in Belgium. I am lucky to have such wonderful family close by to stay with, even if I cannot complete the trail. I guess it will have to wait.

Some photos below from my one beautiful day (and what I ate). ❤

 

ADDENDUM: The rest of the day had some highlights that I wanted to share so you don’t feel sorry for me. I drowned my sorrows in some churros and chocolate, I got a local Santiago almond cake and met some new friends at my hostel who cooked me a lovely pasta dinner with black squid in ink and pulpa, which is tenderized octopus. That they came in a can only added to the experience.

I also made it into the city just in time to attend the noon ceremony at the famous cathedral where eight men in robes (tirabuleiros) pull the botfumeiro; a giant canister with incense which swings like a giant hippy-scented pendulum. It was beautiful.

Chapter Seven: Yoga Teacher Training in Mallorca

~ Julie M. ~ 3 Comments

I have just completed three weeks of intensive yoga teacher training. Or, what I like to refer to as a lesson in austerity. I was expecting the vegetarian cooking, and even looking forward to it. What I did not expect was no caffeine and no sugar (and, self-inflicted, no gluten). ‘It will be good for us!’ I told myself, prepared to shed expectations and embrace life, come what may, for the next twenty two days.

I arrived on a very rainy and cold Saturday. There was a beautiful fire crackling when I came inside and plenty of herbal teas to sip. I was the first to arrive (an unshedable tribute to my former life) and met the girls that I would be spending every morning, noon and night with, one at a time. They were all lovely, upon first impression, and I am happy to say that this impression remained with me throughout the course.

The ‘ashram’ we stayed in was a thirteenth century house complete with a large garden and olive oil mill and overlooked the quaint town of estellencs as well as the Mediterranean sea. I ended up with my own room (most were shared) and had a window view looking out onto thus splendor, which also captured the magnificent sunsets.

Our days were long and full and we absorbed every ounce of yogic information possible. When we weren’t busy learning anatomy, history of India, philosophy of yoga and correct postures we were chanting mantras in Sanskrit, meditating and taking breaks napping in the hammocks on the veranda. We also engaged in some more eccentric activities such as fire altar rituals, ecstatic dancing while drinking raw cacao and visiting a homemade sweat tent made of sticks and rugs where we crowded knee to knee with 90-something strangers in little to no clothing and sang in absolute darkness. Oh, and paddleboard!

In the end, we all passed and are now certified yoga teachers! When and how this will factor into my life is yet to be determined; though I would like to find a place for it.

Tiring as it was, they were a magical three weeks. And although I never again want to look at another bowl of polenta, I am so thankful for the memories, my ‘sisters’… and the occasional contraband cafe con leche. ❤

Chapter Six: Barcelona

~ Julie M. ~ 5 Comments

What can I say about Barcelona? I loved every second of it, from my fantastic hosts to the delicious two bite pintxos to the vibrant and artistic streets. Two days was tight but wonderful nonetheless and I managed to find a good balance between relaxing and taking it all in. And as balance is the current theme for my yogic training, I think that is perfectly suited.

I had arranged to stay with a friend of a friend in Barcelona. When my host (whom I’d never met) not only insisted on picking me up at the train station but also decided to take the same flight out to Mallorca two days later, offering to take me to the airport, as well as come along and take me to my ashram (he has friends here), I was starting to worry that this was too good to be true. But as soon as I met Jesus, and his boyfriend Christophe, I realized all of my doubts were unnecessary as they turned out to be two of the most genuine and kind people I have come across.

Jesus took me around the city, from the über-hip Raval neighborhood, to the park de la cuitadella, arc de triomphe and the beach. On my own I decided my trip would be incomplete without a visit to the Sagrada Familia church. I had been many moons ago but the development that had taken place over the last twelve years was truly astonishing. Needless to say, I was glad I went, despite the blisters on my feet.

I popped into the Moritz brewery (for cultural reasons) and tried one of the finest gourmet donuts I’ve had (pine flavoured. Yes, you read that correctly). And my visit was topped off with a trip the the Carrer Blai street which is virtually filled with small pintxos bars and locals spilling out from them onto the cobblestones. Pintxos are similar to tapas but they sit atop a small piece of bread. They can be anything from goats cheese and prosciutto to prawns to chorizo spread and peppers. All were amazing! At the end you count up the toothpicks on your plate and are charged according to the number you arrive at.

All in all, it was a perfect two days before the start of a three week lesson in austerity (with the occasional contraband coffee).

Barcelona, I love you. Pintxos and culture below.
❤

 

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