On Pilgrimage: El Camino de Santiago

It's very interesting for me to think back to 2002 when I walked the Camino de Santiago, a Catholic pilgrimage spanning the whole north of Spain, traditionally starting in Saint Jean Pied de Port, France and ending in Santiago, Spain.  I was so different then.  I started that trip so skeptical and negative about life - much different than I am today.  I finished so trusting and idealistic about life - also not much like I am now.  I now find myself in a much more balanced place - overall optimistic, but not naively so.  When I flew home from Spain, I was more or less determined to live a nomadic lifestyle, studying philosophy in near and far places, always investing all my energy in the present moment.  Now I find myself engaged, owning a nice dining room table, searching for a career path, and caring for a dog.  A professor I once had described Freidrich Nietszche's philosophy as a 'young person's philosophy', meaning that when you get older you start thinking less about your own potential and more about your duties and roles in your community.  I think I was honed into Neitszche's philosophy in 2002, and as I've gotten older, I've started accepting things I found deplorable in my youth - like security and stability.  That being said, El Camino was the most powerful experience of my life to date, and its spirit will always be with me.  And it should be noted, at 31, I still don't have a 401k.

The Camino de Santiago takes about a month to walk, if you are hiking about 15-20 kilometers a day.  If started in Saint Jean Pied de Port, it begins with a steep ascent into the Pyranees Mountains, where people are Basque and often don't speak Spanish.  Guiding you are yellow arrows, long dirt roads, highways, sidewalks, quiet streets, refugios for sleeping, and restaurants advertising Menu del Dia para Peregrinos.

Jenny, Wendy, and I spent our first night in Europe on a sidewalk in Saint Jean Pied de Port because we arrived in town after every hotel was closed.  We woke up exhausted and made our way to the refugio.  To our surprise, two old French men excitedly hurried us in and methodically started inspecting our packs.  They started pulling things out exclaiming, 'No! No!'  The last straw was when they extracted The Count of Monte Cristo from Jenny's backpack, waving it in the air, wondering why three crazy Americans were planning on walking 750 kilometers, spanning three mountain ranges with books!  We didn't put up a fight, and we walked straight to the post office and paid a hefty fee to mail one fourth of our belongings home.  We were then sent on our way, and we quickly realized why it wasn't smart to carry anything we didn't need.  Hiking for days on end with heavy packs is tough, and Jenny, even with her light pack, nearly blew her knees out during the first week.

Despite pretty cold and wet weather and physical pain, we walked on, and met interesting people along the way.  Pilgrims share a common bond even before they meet: they suffer together on the road, and they suffer it in hope of finding some deep, hidden, and powerful meaning along the way.  The people we most connected with were trying to figure their lives out.  A lot of them had reached a point where they were lost and didn't know what to do.  Unwilling to just settle into some unfulfilling existence, they took a risk and dropped everything to walk for 30 days.  The experience is amazing: you might initially make some of the typical small talk you make at home, but indubitably, if you are to spend more than 5 minutes with someone you met there, you would fall upon philosophical subjects exploring ethics, morality, meaningful existence, metaphysics, spirituality, religion, politics, and authenticity.  It was natural to have these conversations, and you learned a lot from exploring the different perspectives brought on by people of varying nationalities, professions, and ages.  I made a particularly good friend with Adelardo, a Spanish guitarist with amazing experiences and an unbelievably kind heart.

Pilgrims, obviously, walk at different paces, and the rule is to make the Camino your own - to walk at your pace.  People, therefore, got separated at times and became reunited.  Also, people spend a lot of time walking alone.  I spent hours and hours alone, walking.  This proved to be an intense meditation practice of which I wasn't even aware at the time.  It struck me one day when I spent half a day walking and my mind was completely blank for the entire second half of the walk.  All thought ceased and I was in a blissful state, surrounded by a quiet and beautiful Spanish countryside.  I spent many hours in this state - a state I'd previously not experienced, because it takes a lot of time to develop that kind of quiet in the mind.  It proved to be the greatest therapy of my life.  A neurologist might describe my mind as undergoing a neural rewiring.  I was remapping my interests and priorities.  I was also becoming less biased and more open to differing ideas and experiences.  I was feeling more and more connected to the earth and my community.  By the end of the pilgrimage, as Adelardo said goodbye and departed, I let go of the last remaining attachments I selfishly clung to, and I had the greatest cry of my life.  Physically, it was an unloading of tears.  Emotionally, it was a rebirth.  Spiritually, it was an acceptance of the great mysteries of life.  By the end of my 4 hour-long cry I endured as we walked out of Santiago, toward the Spanish coast, I was a new man, very excited about my upcoming adventure.

Wendy, Jenny, and I walked to Finesterre - The End of the World, for the Romans.  We walked to the coast, where we would have to swim if we wanted to continue traveling west.  We spent a day staring at the ocean, contemplating the 750 kilometers and 35 days we'd just experienced.  I remember feeling really tired of walking, which is a shame, because many of my fondest memories in life involve walking and communing with deep thinking friends and family.  Prior to the Camino, my walks with Adrian and Mike, talking about music and art and resisting the trap we saw so much of society falling into, were groundbreaking.  My time on the Camino was epic, including our return to the path just a month later, walking with our lifelong friend Tess.  My lonely excursions up San Jacinto in Idyllwild always make me feel good.  And my month-long hike on the John Muir Trail with Anita was the closest I've been since the Camino to establishing a meditative trance just by walking.  It's also comparative to the Camino in that I experienced a deep and freeing cry when Anita left the trail a few days early of arriving at Tuolomne Meadows.  But that's all another story...

I made some important decisions on the Camino.  I decided to clear my debt, which I worked tirelessly at upon my return to the States.  I also decided to study philosophy.  I'd always been held back by the question I was so often asked, "What are you going to do with that degree?"  I didn't know how to answer that question.  My lack of an assertive response kept me from going through with it.  After the Camino, I recognized that the experience would have inherent value, and I chose one of the most beautiful places on earth to delve into philosophical debates: Humboldt County, California.  I now have a Master's Degree in Philosophy and my answer to that question, "What are you going to do with it?" has finally been answered: I am a customer service representative at Netflix.  Oh, and I read Badiou on my free time.

My experience on El Camino has served as a model for understanding life: I see my experiences through the lense of pilgrimage.  I understand the weight of the things I carry around with me, and how they affect my path.  I've tried since then to keep my possessions light (until now!).  I try to maintain a position where I can head off and walk for 30 days if my soul needs it.  I understand how important goals are.  If a path is to be traveled, it must have direction.  I like to set attainable goals for myself, and work toward them.  I understand that all paths entail the enduring of pain, and that pain is only endurable if the destination has an inherent value.  So long as you believe in what you are doing, you can endure a great amount of pain.  I also understand the value of planning.  If we didn't have those benevolent french men pulling The Count of Monte Cristo from our packs, we might have become seriously injured.  Pilgrimage should be pursued responsibly, with care taken in the planning stage, the execution, and in the aftermath, carefully integrating the lessons learned from the experience in the everyday life choices we're doubtless going to make when it's all over.  As a sign said in a bathroom in the Santiago refugio, "El Camino no tiene fin, El Camino es interior."