LITMIR.BIZ

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official certificate confirming a pilgrim’s arrival at the tomb of Saint James. In 2015 the number was 262,459.

      A pilgrimage, of course, focuses on the destination and not the route traveled, so there is no single “starting point” for the Camino. The earliest pilgrims’ journeys began wherever they lived. However, according to a twelfth-century guide for pilgrims, the Codex Calixtinus, there were four primary pilgrim routes that developed in France to funnel pilgrims together and guide them past other holy sites on their way to Santiago. Vía Podiensis began in Le Puy, Vía Turonensis began in Paris, Vía Lemovicensis began in Vézelay, and Vía Tolosana began in Arles. Based on those writings, UNESCO’s designation recognized the trails that stretched back over the Pyrenees and across France, to those four cities. In subsequent years, the Heritage designation has expanded to include additional paths stretching to all four corners of Spain.

      The most heavily traveled section of the Camino, then and now, is called the Camino Francés, which translates to “the French Camino” not because it’s in France (all but twenty kilometers are in Spain), but because historically this was the path taken most often by French pilgrims. Camino Francés begins in the French border town of Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, at the point where three of the Codex Calixtinus paths converge, and goes west, crossing the Pyrenees and winding across northern Spain to Santiago. Today, this is often mistaken as the “whole” Camino rather than a single branch.

      The mass ended, and the priest explained—in several languages, including English—that we would proceed to the altar of Saint Jacques for a blessing. Eric and I followed the group back across the main sanctuary to an alcove near the main doorway, where a wooden image of Jacques was dressed as a pilgrim, with a floppy hat, pilgrim shell, and staff in hand.

      The priest asked each pilgrim to introduce themselves. Almost everyone was French. Eric and I were, not surprisingly, the only Americans and English speakers, but there were also a couple of Germans and at least one woman from Belgium.

      The priest read a prayer in the native language of each pilgrim, and a nun in a full habit and wimple gave us prayer cards to carry with us. One sentence in particular stood out to me: Be for them shade in the heat of the day, light in the darkness of night, relief in tiredness, so that they may come safely, under your protection, to the end of their journey. The spiritual and the physical worlds entwined.

      After another prayer, the priest gave us each a small silver medallion the size of my thumbnail. On one side was a scallop shell, and on the other, the Black Virgin and the words “Notre Dame de Puy.” I slid it onto my necklace cord and wore that medallion every day until we were back in Seattle. Eric, I noticed, also paused to attach his medallion to the cord he wears around his neck to carry his wedding ring.

      There was something about that moment, in a place that had blessed people like us for a thousand years, that demanded solemnity and an act of commitment. We were joining something older than anything we’d experienced.

      When we left Lyon, we were backpackers. Now, I was a pilgrim of Le Puy.

      Blessed and ready to go, we filed out through the grand, west-facing cathedral entrance. My nervous energy made me feel clumsy as I descended the long flight of stairs and then an even longer hill paved with cobblestones. The sky was blue but the air was cold; there was still morning frost on the ground this early in spring.

      We followed the pilgrims in front of us at first, forgetting to look for the red and white stripes that would mark our way. But the hikers spread out as we all found our own paces, and Eric and I were soon beyond the edges of Le Puy, in the middle of rolling farmland, with only the painted markers to guide us.

      We climbed and descended, and climbed again. The hills weren’t particularly high, but they were relentless. There didn’t seem to be a square meter of flat ground anywhere. After an hour, I was sweating despite the chill in the air.

      I should mention here that my overpreparation in the previous months had all been mental, not physical. I knew I was supposed to “train” for a long hike, whatever that meant, but I’d convinced myself there’d been no time. The first time I put on my full backpack was the day we left, and I’d walked only a couple of miles at a time in my new, fancy trail runners.

      My plan was to keep our distance short on the first day. Most of the pilgrims at the welcome gathering told us they were going to Saint-Privat-d’Allier, which was fifteen miles—er, twentyfour kilometers—from Le Puy. But according to our guidebook, there was a small town named Montbonnet with a restaurant and accommodations just fifteen kilometers from Le Puy. That seemed like a more reasonable distance for our first day.

      The kilometers slipped by slowly as I tried to see everything at once. I took photos of every horse in a field or centuries-old stone cross by the side of the road. As the hours ticked by, I regretted that I’d been too nervous to eat more than a single slice of bread at breakfast. It was close to noon, and I’d walked farther than I had in months. By the time we reached Montbonnet, I was starving and, as Eric calls it, hangry. The excitement had worn off. My feet hurt. I needed lunch.

      However, the Camino had other plans. Instead of getting a sandwich, I learned a new French word: fermé. Closed.

      Montbonnet turned out to be a single street with a few houses and a cafe, which was fermé. The adjacent gîte was also fermé. It was clearly being renovated, but there was no explanation for why the cafe was closed. We could hear people moving around inside, yet the door was locked and the lights were off. There was no other place to get food in the town, and there were no other towns nearby.

      This was not my plan, and Eric will gladly tell you I’m not good when things don’t go according to my plan.

      Fermé or not, after fifteen kilometers without a break, I needed to stop. We sprawled on the porch of the closed establishment, and I took off my shoes and socks to rub my aching feet. It was nice to stretch my toes in the sunshine, but I was still hangry.

      While I railed against the cafe and the town and everything conspiring against me, Eric gave me a leftover granola bar from his pack and waited out my sulk. These are always awkward moments for us, when I lose my shit over something that neither of us can control. He is, as I’ve said, an extremely helpful person. He wants to fix things. But when I’m mad at the universe, there’s not much he can do.

      And so he sat and waited for an hour or so, until I was done, before he pointed out the obvious. We weren’t going to stay here, and the next town was still almost nine kilometers away. As annoyed as I was, I couldn’t dispute his conclusion, so we walked on.

      The break had refreshed me, and while my feet still ached and my right shoulder had formed a knot under the weight of the unfamiliar pack, I told myself it wasn’t so bad. This was still an adventure.

      We followed the red and white stripes of GR65 along a wooded trail toward Saint Privat, passing a number of French pilgrims as they rested in the shade. I noticed they were all eating the food that they’d wisely bought the day before and carried with them. Lesson learned: when in France, pack a lunch.

      If entering Le Puy was a surprise for its bustling commerce, Saint Privat was the opposite. There was nothing modern about this sleepy town of listing buildings on a steep hill, and there were no people in sight.

      We followed the main Camino markers until we came across Jean Claude, lounging on a bench with a few other men. The stone cottage behind them had a small vine-covered sign that said GÎTE. Since I hadn’t planned to stay here, I knew almost nothing about the town or where we should go to find a place to stay. This scene looked inviting, but my hope that Jean Claude would save us again was short lived.

      “Réserve?” he asked, indicating the building. No, we did not have a reservation here.

      “Oh, non.” The French have a special knack for blending a look of regret and disapproval. “C’est complet.” It is full. He said something I couldn’t understand, but the meaning was clear. The two men sitting with Jean Claude had snagged the last two available beds.

      I could feel Eric doing the math

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