LITMIR.BIZ

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adventures before or after college.

      Once we were tied to traditional jobs and the ubiquitous two-week American vacation, Eric repeatedly claimed he had no interest in long plane rides followed by running from tourist site to tourist site. On top of that, the Camino de Santiago has Christian roots, and Eric’s divorce from his fundamentalist church upbringing had left some strong feelings about religion. I wasn’t sure how he would react to spending three months under the sign of the cross.

      Still, the first time I floated the idea of a long walk along a historically Catholic path in Europe, he was on board. Clearly I wasn’t the only one who needed a radical change in daily life.

      After that, though, the conversation stalled. It was easy to say we wanted to do this, but the logistics were daunting. How could we take three months off in our “prime career” years? We both had jobs that we didn’t want to quit. And bills. And family obligations. And an aging, high-maintenance cat.

      And yet. We had a bit of money tucked away, the last remnant of a pre–Great Recession nest egg. We were responsibly saving it for that oft-predicted rainy day. Jetting off to Europe wasn’t responsible.

      And yet. Our daily lives continued to feel stifling and unexplored. Years passed. The Camino kept coming up. I kept bringing it up. I watched Martin Sheen in The Way. I read more Camino books. My computer screens kept filling faster than I could empty them. Projects and people flickered across my overcommitted life like social media streams, taking time but barely leaving ripples in my memory.

      It wasn’t until I started dreaming about running away from everything that I finally jumped. Late one September night, after a rough week and without much discussion, I bought two nonrefundable plane tickets for a date seven months in the future.

      We were going to do this.

      Offering plenty of notice and cashing in all of the goodwill he’d stocked up over years of hard work, Eric arranged for a leave of absence from his job. I stopped taking new projects and rearranged deadlines with my regular clients. My sister, fresh out of college and underemployed, agreed to move to Seattle and house-sit/cater to the difficult cat.

      That’s when the panic kicked in. What was I doing? I didn’t know anything about backpacking. I’d never slept in a hostel. I didn’t even own a sleeping bag!

      I threw myself into overpreparation to make up for what I didn’t know. I obsessed over my packing list, haunting Camino Facebook groups and sporting goods stores. I spent a fortune on just the right hiking shirt (and then, at the last minute, tossed in a “backup” shirt I’d owned for years, which I ended up wearing every day). I collected every suggested thing we might need, including bags of safety pins (good idea), wet wipes (bad idea), and four hundred adhesive bandages (we used three).

      As the fall turned to winter and the winter to spring, I worked seven days a week to meet my obligations, arrange our absence, and make sure there were no surprises. Eric gamely ignored me. We both accept that I’m the planner in our partnership and he’s the improviser. A week before we left, he made one trip to REI, came home with two merino wool T-shirts and a raincoat, and declared himself ready to go. I couldn’t decide whether to be mad or jealous.

      I filled the smallest cracks of time with last-minute tasks. When I had trouble sleeping because of the stress, I reminded myself that as soon as we got to Le Puy, everything would be okay. I would turn off my phone and bury it in my backpack, to be used only in dire emergencies. I would pay attention only to the trail in front of me. Surely, then, all of my anxiety would go away. I would let go, and as I’d heard time after time, the Camino would provide.

      But clearly, this Le Puy train station was too early to let go. Where were the cobblestone streets? Where was the cathedral? Where were our beds?

      I had the name of a pilgrim’s hostel, a gîte de pèlerin, recommended by someone on some website, but without Google Maps, I had no idea how to find it. And I wasn’t going to break my own “no phone” rule in the first five minutes. Surely we could figure this out.

      I didn’t see any scallop shells, the traditional symbol of the Camino, or the red-and-white–striped markers of the Chemin du Puy, the French part of the Way of Saint James as it wound from Le Puy to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. And of course, I had no idea how to ask anyone.

      As I stood there, not quite panicking, Eric pointed out Jean Claude’s tall form striding away. He’d saved us once already, and he looked like he knew where he was going. Trying not to be obvious, we trailed him across a busy street and then up a hill. The buildings grew older, the streets grew narrower, and finally the pavement under our feet turned to cobblestone. This felt like the right direction.

      At one point our guide looked back and waved, then pointed ahead and said something in French. So much for not being obvious. He led us up more steep streets until I was sweating and breathless. If I found walking in a hilly town this hard, what would happen when I got to the Pyrenees?

      I distracted myself by looking around. This part of Le Puy-en-Velay felt like a movie set. Crooked houses made of black volcanic rock leaned over streets barely wide enough for the occasional car to pass. Old women in long dresses sat in doorways and watched us. I wanted to stop and soak it in but couldn’t risk losing Jean Claude.

      Finally, our guide turned again and waited for us to catch up. He asked, in broken Spanish, where we were going. I pointed to the name on our paper, not brave enough to try the words out loud: Gîte de pèlerin de Les Amis de Saint Jacques, 28 rue Cardinal de Polignac.

      The Frenchman nodded and pointed down an angled street, then strode off in a different direction. Left on our own, Eric and I wandered up and down the narrow street three times before we noticed the engraved number 28 on a thick wooden door that led to a courtyard. Two plastic patio chairs sat incongruously against the stone walls, and a small sign on the door announced, as far as we could tell, that the gîte opened at 3:00. It was only 2:30, but we weren’t sure we could find our way back if we ventured too far. We settled in to wait, feeling awkward and excited and mesmerized.

      Precisely at 3:00, an older man ambled into the courtyard and unlocked the door, cheerily waving us inside. His name was Isidore, and we discovered he spoke only about ten words of English. When he realized that we spoke even less French, his smile faltered, but only for a second. It was becoming clear that our lack of basic skills in the local language was going to be a problem, yet our French host welcomed us to his country anyway. Anyone who believes the stereotype that the French are all aloof and judgmental has never met Isidore.

      The gîte was run by the Amis de Saint Jacques, the Friends of Saint James, an organization of volunteers like Isidore that ran several gîtes de pèlerins, including the one where we now sat, for pilgrims walking the Way of Saint James in France. They provided beds, showers, breakfasts, and guidance for free, although guests were invited to give donations of whatever they could afford.

      Isidore was joined by a second volunteer, a woman who spoke even less English than him, and together they plowed ahead to settle the unprepared American enfants. The woman, whose name I never caught, told us in simple words and pantomime that we were the first Americans to stay in their gîte this year. That made me a little nervous until I remembered they’d just opened for the season a few days before. Many French facilities along the Camino close from October to Easter, since winter storms in the high country can be dangerous for hikers.

      Still, it was a taste of the reaction we would get almost daily for the entire time we were in France. You are American? Here? I did not think Americans knew about the Chemin! But here we were.

      Isidore gave us a sheet printed in English with the house rules. We were to leave our backpacks in lockers in a separate room, far from our beds, out of concern for bedbugs. There was a welcome session for all new pilgrims that afternoon at 5:30. We were to be back inside the gîte before they locked the doors at 10:00. Breakfast would be at 6:00 the next morning, and there was a pilgrim mass in the cathedral at 7:00.

      6:00 a.m.? I knew, in theory, that pilgrims started early, but my night-owl self still shuddered.

      Isidore

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