Camino de Santiago: Day 28, 29, 30

Arriving and not Arriving in Santiago

Arriving to Santiago begins about 100 KM out and culminates in joyous ejaculation in the main Cathedral square of Santiago de Compostela. It’s nothing like the moment of gaining one’s sword as described in Paulo Coelho’s The Pilgrimage. 

As I approached Santiago, I drew close with the friends I had made on the walk. We either didn’t want to spend time apart or were destined to walk together, because, despite our varied paths, we either bumped into eachother at lunch, slept in the same hostels, or found eachother on the walk constantly. We broke off from eachother on the second of three days it took us to walk the final 100KM to Santiago, but were mostly together, and definitely so at the end. 

I did the first 80KM like a madman, the last 20KM differently. On the first of the three days it took to arrive, I walked all day and late into the night. After climbing Dragonte, I felt powerful at night — my fears of being eaten by wolves were gone — and I stopped to examine water in the night, which apparently continues its work of flowing, unperturbed by darkness. Everything drips in dew and the site is awe-inspiring under a sky full of stars and the Milky Way. I arrived into my hostel on the first of the three nights to find an old friend from the beginning of the Camino, a quick walking and lonesome Spaniard named Carlos, the center of a group of Spaniards, chatting and joking his ass off in hard-to-follow Spanish of a northern dialect. Still a sweetie, he would end up joining into our 6-person apartment for two days of celebration upon arrival in Santiago. I found the apartment, PR BLANCO, for about 150 Euro/night, which split between six people was no problem. 

I also met my friend Silvia, from Italy, who was coincidentally the second pilgrim I met throughout the entire trip. I said hello to her in the office where I received my pilgrims credential in St. Jean Pied de Port, France, where I began my pilgrimage. She became much like a sister to me, over the course of the trip. I found it difficult to place her age as her opinions, maturity, life problems, and opinions seemed all over the place. Maybe thats always the case when we’re truly honest with eachother. 

My German friend, Christoph, wasn’t with me on the first of the three nights heading into arrival, as he had forgotten his wallet, and walked a full 45KM the day prior, and did not want to walk as far as I did. He would catch me early the next day. 

Episode II Attack of the Clones 

The second to last day we had just 25KM to walk. Each of us took a different path. Each of us took a distinctive path. I fucked up one last time, and tremendously. 

I have a little troll inside me that jumps up and down and screams like a child in Toys R Us every time I’m confronted with an opportunity offering an ignominious concoction of danger and mystery. Sometimes I tell myself no, but more often on this trip I say why the fuck not. If not now, then never. That + faith took me to the top of Dragonte and I’ve learned it’s powerful. It’s also dangerous and I need to learn how to balance it better. 

Christoph powered through to Azura, the final city, where he talked to his girlfriend and worried about myself and more so Silvia, who was actually off by herself being proffered by drunken men, late into the night. 

Silvia parted with me in the morning after two lunchtime beers with myself and Christoph and stopped into a raucous roadside bar (with a reputation) called El Puente Verde (if memory serves). I walked past the very same, saw her backpack, and decided my fate lay elsewhere. I also could tell people were getting crunk AF in there. Turns our the famous bar was actually closing doors forever in two days, and so they were having a blow out. 

I heard about a mountainous detour and wrestled myself into saying I’d do it. I struggled to find the entrance to the mountain loop, but eventually did after a few Spanish conversations. I walked through a forest with towering trees and arrived into a little mountain farm village, where I was able to find a man who happily pointed me toward the mountains but was totally flabbergasted that I intended to climb the mountain. He found it funny but was also clearly concerned. I found that concerning but also invigorating. 

For about an hour, i poked around farm fields for the so called ‘Caminito’ that would take me to the top. I found nothing and gave up, deciding to walk parallel to the highway until I reached Azura. It was 5:15PM. Sunset occurred around 6:30PM. I began to see roads that clearly headed up into the mountains. I tensed up inside, as I fought the urge to, again, try to surmount and find the cross. I decided I’d find that motherfucking cross in that motherfucking mountain, and I took off running. 

I told myself I had 30 minutes to find the cross. The man in the village had told me it was 30 minutes into the mountain, but I knew that those directions might presuppose knowledge of the mountains paths or who knows what, so I decided I’d run it. I sprinted and trudged when my face ran with sweat and the weight of my pack forced me to rest to catch my breath. I always chose what appeared to be the main path as I ran up the mountain. 

The path got smaller and smaller.. 

The path disappeared and I fought through brush until I gave up. I had run for 20 of my 30 minutes and I had chosen the wrong path. 

In the distance, I saw a clearing in the trees. I thought maybe this was the location of the cross I fought over to the clearing, through thorn bushes, and arrived where machines or fire had carved away a square kilometer of forest. With some time remaining, I sprinted across, seeing in the distance my starting point as well as the city of Azura. It seemed so close and, in my haste, I decided I’d try to descend down the side of the mountain and I’d lose the path that had taken me up. That path was so long, and Azura appeared so close, and I was losing light. Perhaps I would make up some time. 

Nope. I didn’t make up any time. In fact, I flipped open Google Maps to find that there seemed to be a road about 500 Meters off (close, right?) and I descended through a deep amazon jungle coral reef of bullshit bushes and thorns that ripped at my forehead, wrapped my arms, and a few times brought me to my knees, totally ensnared. I was sweating bullets when, caught up in a nest of thorns, I heard a heavy-footed animal approach. I trust myself against almost anything with trekking poles in hand (read: I’m a mean swordsman), but my mobility was extremely limited due to the thorns. If I was attacked by a warthog, for example, I was toast. Luckily, the animal seemed uninterested in meeting me and plodded away. 

I continued to fight through heavy foliage. When I was not able to what and stomp my way through a stretch of forest, I backtracked and ambled in another direction. 

You can imagine this was a time-consuming affair. I neared panic as the clock hit about 6:15PM, and I decided I’d get back to that path no matter the toll my body took. I crossed a creek with water up to my thighs. I climbed over a fence, and into the back yard of a humongous mansion. I almost walked to the back door, but I wondered if they had a big dog, and so I climbed the fence again and approached their front door. 

DOONK DOONK DOONK 

“Quien es?” 

“Estoy un peregrino! Estoy perdido! Necesito ayuda!” 

A sharply dressed fat-man in a yellow sweater and smoking jacket opened the door with concern on his face. His dainty wife soon followed, wine i hand. Inside, I could see multiple fire places roaring. I knew this was a very wealthy family and I hoped they’d invite me inside. The man asked if I needed anything desperately. Whiskey ran through my mind. Wine followed on its heels. Water, I said, and the woman brought out a big glass goblet of it, which I gulped down quickly. They explained they could not drive me, but I could walk along their driveway to get back to the road. They were clearly concerned for me. I thanked them for their time and set off into the darkness, resisting the urge to sprint until I was out of their eyesight. The man called after me and asked where I was from. I answered and asked his name... “Carlos Ruiz Zafon.” 

I really wish he invited me inside lol. 

I arrived, clothes tattered, with a 1000 mile stare, into my luxury hostel where a tall metrosexual man, seemingly irritated with life, the universe, and everything checked me in. 

I made a mistake that day. I chased glory, and my luck failed me, and my grit made up for it, but the cost was in humility and irritated skin that had been poked and scratched by mildly poisonous plant life. 

Silvia arrived some hours later, in a among party of drunken men, including a player from Spain’s national volleyball team. She told me the next day each man had tried to sleep with her and one even offered money. 

On the final day, we walked just 20KM. We never stopped. After 4KM waking, we had washed away our yesterday’s sins and were firmly set on our arrival. 

Silvia tried to soak in every sight. I tried to calm a rising irritation that told me to go-go-go-go-go like that voice in Counterstrike, and Christoph seemed relaxed and excited to arrive. 

After hours that seemed like many more, we arrived into Santiago. The city dead ends into a massive central square, boxed by monolithic gothic edifices, and we dog piled onto Carlos, rolled onto our backs, and basked in the culmination of our journey and the sun. 

A strange Japanese man approached us and asked to take pictures and told us he once did 300KM on the Camino four years ago. Fuckin’ A, man. Fuckin’ A. 

There isn’t too much to say about the days of celebration. Happiness. Exploration. I met some hippies. Met some beggers. I established something of a rapport with a one-legged man who said “increible” when I refused him money (after Silvia had given him a full 10 euro note that same day) and when we passed eachother in the streets we would just shout back at eachother “increible” ... incredible. I also met a guitar player who played with a mask. I never saw his face, but I bought a CD and he said he was from Uruguay. 

Leaving Santiago felt like leaving Dragoncon, which chokes me up even to write lol. The energy lets out like a balloon, and the people trickle out, until there is just one bastion of people left, and then they begin to trickle out. I attended a mass in the Cathedral of Santiago that ended thusly. I hung on, but the river of life flowed regardless, and I knew I had to go. And go I did, onto my next Camino and next adventure... 

Morocco — Day 4: Fez

Morocco Day Four - Fez 

I’m writing right now as, from my Riad’s sun-bathed roof terrace winding shouts of “Allahu Akbar” explode out from speakers across the city. I wonder if its actually someone yelling into a microphone from a mosque or a recording, becuase when they say Allahu Akbar, some of these voices hold say it like this AllaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAhu-Akbar. Others say it AAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!!LAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!HUUAAKBAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaa....LAAAAAAAHUUUUUUAAKKKKKKKKBAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR!!! Others say it real quick ALAHUAKBAR. And for a span of 2 minutes the voices cascade across and out from the city. It’s surreal... 

I cant get over the street hustlers of fez. I feel unsafe knowing that everyone is watching me, scheming on my money. People inundate me, in particular. Something about my look. People follow me too. I just dont feel safe. I cant walk around with my trekking poles, either. That would be like a fucking magnet for everyone who isn’t yet talking to me, offering me directions, hash, company — but really just want my money. One man yelled at me because I wouldn’t relax. That pulled at my strings because I want to trust but also GTFO I’m not trusting your dumbass. One called me out on being an American and started calling me liar, liar, liar. My parents have filled me with stories of why I should not reveal I’m an American. Locals who know have advised me that it doesnt matter. I think the truth is somewhere between, leaning toward the latter. What’s true, though, is Americans have money! Many of these people don’t. Morocco is a third world country. So when folks are tailing me, and just one of them is chatting me up, attempting to guide me or even to get me to stand still, I’m irritated. 

Fez has the world largest car-free living zone, in the way of its Medina. The Medina is the local marketplace, built with nonsensical, labyrinthian turns and dead-ends. There are huge squares, where snake charmers, storytellers, musicians, bird charmers (???) and regular hustlers all bustle. Donkeys walk through the streets and you have to press up against the walls to avoid their cargo. Motorcycles zoom through. It’s wild. Children kick soccer balls but stop long enough to try and guide you into restaurants. 

Somehow in my life Ive actually developed some sort of a lofty place in myself where I can sit back and observe, and what I see really makes me happy. Last night I saw a thin man and his girlfriend, possibly both Americans, eating out of the hand of a faux guide who was almost certainly about to press them for more money than they were willing to give. Tourists are rife with these stories and seeing it happen is like watching a car crash, except one of the cars is predatory and if you get in the way it will attempt to crash into you. That’s what happens when you dont do your homework!! I’d sooner break out in a rendition of Arab Money by Busta Rhymes and Ron Brownz before I give one of these faux guides even an inch of rope for them to pull at. But here I am writing from a rooftop terrace, where Ive been for some hours instead of descending into the madness... Guess its time!!! 

El Camino de Santiago Day 6

Camino de Santiago day Six

St. Jean Pied de Port 

Roncesvalles

Pamplona

Puente de la Reyna

Estella 

Torre de Rio 

These are the places I’ve stayed. Five full days of walking. I passed a sign denoting 100 kilometers walked today. 

I’d like to start with this. I am a very high strung person. Much of advice RE life advises you to dance. I not only face the teeth pulling choice to dance, but then also feel great nerves as I dance, which sometimes never subside. I know the feeling and I know it well and I feel it now. I met a man, Manuel, who pressed my buttons expertly. He had completed the journey before and I hardly understood his quickdraw Spanish drawl. I understood enough to know he was pushing me mentally to a conclusion. This is really a spiritual journey like passing a kidney stone. Ive completed spiritual journeys before, but this one seems to grow to fit the space its given. Ive walked 100KM in 4 days — something 99% of folks will never do — and I feel Ive only scratched the surface. Oddly, this is normal. I see it in the other first-timers and Ive read it in accounts. I haven’t discarded my business attachments yet, but apparently I will. I admit they feel very distant and my last work assignment I choked up, half-dead on arrival. I don’t really care, like a college kid on vacation — but I’m not a college kid anymore. Papers aren’t like a company. A company is real life. 

Ive sat down and mapped out my day’s journeys. Ive visited 20+ Pueblo’s, and had experiences in each of them. I walked with an old man who talked a lot about death and politics in Spanish I could hardly follow. I bought a pomegranate. I took a picture of some children piling onto a go-kart, gave a thumbs up, and promptly fell on my face. It’s been a journey. Ive been through sleepy villages, retreats for the rich, ruins of the romans, religious citadels, former religious citadels, churches of legend... I’ve seen so much. I couldn’t write it all in one post. I just don’t have the time. I’ll summarize it all and then start with what I did today, day Six. 

I’ve walked through a great variety of typographies. The Pyrenees mountains, rolling hills of southern France, burning planes of northern France, Wine fields, old fortified cities, and endless expanses. The last on that list really sucks and I hear I have a string of days upcoming. I feel twice, on day one and day two. I doubted myself twice, on day one and day six (today). Ive gone from recklessly positive to leaning into my situation. 

I’m listening to audiobooks. I listen to 2666 by Roberto Bolaño, The Pilgrimage by Paul Coelho, and The Bhagavad Gita. I also have Lil B’s Options Mixtape saved on my phone. I listen to it each morning all the way through and it inspires my mind and my thoughts. I re-listen to a few favorite songs throughout the day. Ive engaged deeply with each book, especially Coehlo’s. I have taken up his exercises, which have been hard for me. If you’ve read the book, you know what I mean. 

Today, I hit the road like a madman. So did everyone in my cohort. It’s amazing how they keep up. I suffer greatly. Ive always known others to have less of an appetite for suffering than me — always, in fact. Here, though, these people seem to be on the same page with me. It’s totally unbelievable. I love the people I am traveling with, Eniku, Christoph, and Silvia. I am developing a affinity for other pilgrims too. We share this sometimes beautiful sometimes arduous trial each day and celebrate each night. 

Today I learned something that seems at the same time crazy and totally logical. I’m trying to focus on how my mind words and control and re-wire my reactions. For example, when I see something in my path, I will step on it. I can usually quickly identify the item and draw a conclusion as to how appropriate it is. I’m trying to rewire my brain. Not just in this but RE matters that make me uncomfortable or irritated or hurt. I’m trying to heal irrational fears and hurt that I feel by using the meditative technique of considering and letting go and the psychology technique of positive association. 

El Camino de Santiago; Day -1

El Camino de Santiago Day -1 

Let the shoosting begin! 

Double the pride, double the fall — indeed. Well said, you metal singing, lower-Sith fuck.

I’ve been waiting for this.

I devised a system to get out of the door quickly before I fell asleep last night. I set out my next day’s clothes along with my toilitreies. I left my battery and my phone charging. I slept cuddled up to my backpack, with my valuables in my fanny pack. I woke up this morning, gathered my things, tacked my still-drying clothes (hand washed for the first time in my life last night, in the shower) to my backpack when I realized my fanny pack was wide open with my passport hanging out and my wallet missing. I tore up my top bunk loud enough that I heard 6:30AM rustling below, which prompted me to then wake up my bleary eyed, half-naked bunk mate to check if my wallet had fallen into his domain. It hadn’t, but I sure would like to lolercoaster. Anyway, I tell myself to remain calm, and before I miss my train to find my possibly stolen wallet, I should take out all my stuff. I had just finished emptying my bag, ready to hit the XXXXX buttons when I found it tucked behind my sleeping bag. 

Shouts out to my parents for all those years of Spanish education. I find myself totally capable of conversing freely, explaining myself, and even of understanding folks speaking quickly — though the dialects do throw me. I’m not able to pick up words that are outside of my vocabulary. There are a lot of local versions of even simple words. They look and sound like the words I know, but I’m not quick enough to understand the, on the spot and if the speaker is verbulating quickly, I lose that word. Usually when I stop a speaker to ask a question, they will explain again to me (at which point I usually get it) and subsequently launch back into rapid-speech lol. 

Ive always thought to myself, and subsequently read in Dale Carnegie’s work, that the treatment of service workers reflects a persons quality of character. Lemme just say, watch me and you’ll see that I might just suck a server’s dick off. I try to be the best thing in each of their days. I am courteous, considerate, and I hope I can share a human connection. I want them to feel like a person and not a machine. I can only imagine someone having the worst day of their life in service and operating the courtesy machine. I am thinking about that person and their happiness always. It’s especially pronounced when I work with an older server. I feel sad. You should kick back in your later years and do what you want. If you want to work, that’s fine too. But if you’re in service and you’re older, you are going to get a premium service from me right back. I might just suck your dick off. 

My above statement was just put to the test. Hours have passed, and Ive discovered that my train from Barcelona to Pamplona continues onto my next destination, San Sebastián. Instead of dismounting, locating the bus stop, and taking that mode of transportation, I’d rather stay on the train until San Sebastián. I could have some more time in this island town, and maybe even get to St. Pied to Port earlier. I flagged down multiple employees to buy a new ticket. I was forwarded onto a conductor of sorts, who said he’d come find me later (I think). We approached Pamplona and I thought —okay, I need to find that guy and buy a new ticket before this situation goes south. I considered trying to sneak by, but I’m in another country and I don’t want to get caught up in anything. 

I find the conductor, and he goes Ah - aha, okay lets get this done. He asks for my ticket. I show my ticket and he goes — Oh, no... this is fraud. I’m confused. He doubles down  and says my ticket is fraudulent. I’m like why? He says I have two promos applied to my ticket, and I qualified for neither. I should have never been let on the train in Barcelona. I ask what discounts I was given. One was a generic promo (as far as I know) and the other was a family discount. As in, I am traveling with family. Obviously, I am not. I apologized and he said that wasn’t good enough. I asked him if he intended to kick me off, and he said he had to. I cited my poor Spanish, and explained that I had trouble navigating the website. He said my claim was still dubious. I asked if I could buy a ticket onto San Sebastián, and after some consideration, he did allow me to purchase a new ticket. I don’t know if he was attempting to scam me because he asked how I intended to travel to San Sebastián. I said bus, and he said the bus station was far from train. I said I had time and that didn’t matter to me. At that point, I asked to buy a ticket again and he did some calculations and charged me more than I had been ready to pay for a  new ticket. I verified that he wasn’t charging me for what I should have paid with intent to kick me off as a fraud, at the next station. He said the ticket was for San Sebastián now, and I paid. I apologized again and asked him to explain what I had done wrong. He said that I marked that I had 2406819393 children with me to apply for the discount. I said that was my cell number, and that just frustrated him. I took my ticket and we separated. 

I felt no opportunity to express great respect for this man, though I just wrote about respecting the elderly. I didn’t face a choice. I felt more like a trapped animal, accused. I was and am still a bit mad. Mostly embarrassed and wondering if I was charged fairly, and then if I should have just refused and taken the bus. That’s probably not a good idea because that would have opened me up to whatever consequences followed for my accidental fraud. I did read through the ticket and he was right about the family discount. I may have qualified for the first promo discount. There was no information available on that. 

I did not act like an ass, but I think to other times I’ve acted up when elders put me under a thumb. Once, I actually did refuse to pay on the London Tube. I was taking a new route and I searched high and low for a manner of payment. When I finally found it, it was so hidden, I refused to pay. I told myself I would not pay and blame it on their poor design. When, upon leaving, I was flagged, I feigned ignorance. Unluckily, the inspector was nearby and he charged me, regardless of my story. I find that in Europe I cannot wriggle out of anything. People treat me as if they’ve caught a petty criminal, right or wrong. 

That inspector, I was not nice to. I’m pretty sure I cursed directly at him, something I’ve never done otherwise to a person performing their job. Maybe I have, but this guy stands out in my mind. He was really mad. I thought he might attack me, but he did not. I refused to pay the fine, and he said he’d report me to the police. I walked away and he did report me to the police. I received a demand in the mail for me to pay an increased fine. Here’s hoping beareaucracy breaks down in England or that I never get caught on the tube there again, or Ill have a problem. 

I’m not perfect. It’s easy to talk, but harder to walk. A nice metaphor, given my intent to walk 500 miles starting tomorrow morning. Being a human, with our emotions, is hard. Maybe we should just all be machines. What’s the purpose of all our emotions? Can Ipoint the finger at capitalism and say it pitted me against that inspector? I think not, because I did try to cheat. So, now Ive been pegged twice for cheating but only once was it true. Both were related to money. In once instance, I did wrong in the other I did not. The time I did wrong, I paid nothing. The time my mistake was honest, I paid a fee. That’s balance, I reckon. Growth, too. At least in the vacuum of this conversation, it’s growth. Younger me may just have tried to evade notice and perhaps even feign sleep and get to San Sebastián that way. Given that nobody has checked my ticket once, I might have gotten there. Of course, had I been caught, my lie would have then had that horrible false discount attachment, and I’d have been super fucked. 

I admit that I was too gregarious in posting that Count Dooku GIF above. Double the pride, double the fall, much, eh? That’s what happens when you lift others’ famous last words lol... History repeats itself. Double the pride, double the fall. Telegraphed flawlessly. 10/10 would do business again. For someone who claims not to feel or celebrate pride, I’m sure full of a lot of shit. 

Anyway, I did survive with only a small scar in the way of a fee. I’m looking outside of the train, listening to 2666, alternating between the English and then Spanish audiobook. My Spanish has come in handy supremely. This is why my itinerary in Spain is so complex. I know I can navigate here between my adaptability, familiarity with Europe, and my mastery of the language. In Morocco, I’m keeping things way simpler. Tangier, Fes, Marrakech. Major cities with everything pre-booked. I’m looking out the window of this Renfe train and I see sooooo many walking paths. Ive even seen some people, ostensibly men, walking by themselves. I saw one man with a big manual camera. I noted that none had day packs like mine. They must be on shorter adventures. It seems Spain has an extensive walking network, perhaps linked to their extensive but not so distant pastoral history? They’re well maintained, in any case. I think this walk is going to be fantastic, and hopefully I’ve taken my humbleness lesson to heart RE pride. In the words of Yoda.. 

YOU WILL... YOU WILL... 

Well, pulling into San Sebastián. It’s VERY pretty. Huge rolling forested hills with villas dotting the landscape. One has an ENORMOUS boulder in the back. What kind of weirdo built a villa on that sort of geological feature? 

I feel like I’m that flitty-minded creature from Animal Crossing you meet on the train, who variously introduces you to the game and then talks about random crap. Lol. Then stops talking once you’ve arrived at your animal crossing town. Worse things to become, I’spose. 

Baluraque  — inconsequential 

Vadulaque — inconsequential 

El Camino de Santiago Day -2: Barcelona

I recall a familiar refrain. Day one ... I don’t feel like I’m on vacation yet. I had some work that I needed to finish and I worked very efficiently and it was as if I was at home, performing an in-office day. My vacation responder is on doe. 

Today, I arrived in Barcelona, got a few goods, performed a work related call, and have been hanging out at my hostel. Now I’m out for dinner. I’m having ????? Imberico. When I asked what the item was (they specialized in it) he pointed to large plastic meat 

facsimiles and then cheese. Mixed meat and cheese — extremely based. 

Now, I’m sitting down with a beer to write. 

What always reminds me of the European Union are the roads. They all have a similar, freshly-painted, narrow look. England doesn’t look like that. England is very confusing or very rural. Barcelona, though, reminds me of Vienna, which reminds me a bit of Amsterdam, which reminds me nothing of London. 

My food has arrived and it’s charcuterie. Well, not my bag — but I am in Rome, sooooooooooo. 

I visited Catalunya square. The area was quite charming. It was a shopping district built into a promenade and side streets. It had a very adapted-medieval feel. 

One thing I am a bit sad about is how unsafe and unsettled I felt. I kept watching my back. Speaking of, my back really hurts. I am walking the 30 day Camino de Santiago, starting two-days from now. My pack seems a bit heavy. Idk how it happened. I weighed it, and maybe a few things snuck in. It was really heavy, after carrying it all day. I might have to lose some items. 

The lady at the check in desk at my hostel (ten to go hostel) said something that stuck with me. She said that people walk the Camino alone. She seemed to suggest that even if you walk it with someone, you walk alone. When I asked what she meant, she didn’t respond directly. She said that you meet other people and walk with some of them, but people have different paths on a daily basis — and so even someone you really like should go eventually. This may be true, but I know people come as a group to do this walk .Is she suggesting that’s not the way to do it? More likely this path really does attract a lot of solo walkers. Wow. Who are all these people crazy enough to walk 500 miles by themselves...? I might be wrong about assuming people do this, themselves. My evidence is from the various stories I’ve read, forum posts online, and the movie, The Way, starring Martin Sheen. There seem to be a lot of solo walkers. I think my mentality is a bit off. Every American Ive told about the trip has asked me if my girlfriend is coming with me. I sure wish she was. I don’t want to have this life experience without her as a part of it. Maybe its wise for it to be that way, given the nature of its inception so many years ago. None of these people who ask me, though, have ever done El Camino de Santiago. None have even expressed they once had interest, but they do have opinions. Funny, that’s how it always works. We’re social creatures, and right and wrong can be borne up out of almost anything — even a dead goat. 

I’m finishing the charcuterie. This place I’m eating is very — different. There was a small horde of older folks in, watching a football game which finished at 5-0. Why did they stay so long? This is a family restaurant. Where were their kids? They were drinking wine, and this all just seems like very typical European sports culture. They love their soccer in a way Americans cant really conceive of. I’m reminded of Greek culture and the way families gets tied into everything. The Spanish and Greeks both had huge problems with the euro zone, so there’s that. Perhaps they are very similar cultures. 

Tomorrow, I take a train to Pamplona, a bus to San Sebastián (which looked REALLY cool) and then a bus to Bayonne, in France. If I have time, I will take a train to St. Pied de Port, and the next morning I will begin my Camino — which I am very excited for. 

I’ve downloaded a bunch of Audiobooks for my Camino... I’ve downloaded Overworld — a 2018 Man Booker Shortlister which caught my eye, 2666 (in English and Spanish), a book by Paul Coehlo on the Camino de Santiago, and some others... I cant recall off the top of my head. I’ve started with 2666. IT’S AN ENORMOUS BOOK... Ah, yes, I’ve also downloaded a book my Marcel Proust. I read that former inmates are among the populations that have read Proust, because his works take so much time to read. Whether that’s true or not, I’ll be reading them. Proust’s book is like 25 hours on the Audiobook. 2666 is 39.... and the Spanish version is 46. CHEESE AND RICE. Shouts out to Stephanie for all the Audible Credits I used on these books. Hi Gabbi!

Ramadan 2018: Episode V

Every year I kick the tires and ask myself does it have another year left in the can? The answer is always yes -- just one more year, one more step, one more time getting up.

This post is about Ramadan -- my fifth personal spiritual practice I began during a time of transition when I was seeking direction in my life.

I began my practice on a tense, fortuitous whim in Maryland during the dog days of Summer of 2014. On that day, I walked from Wheaton, Maryland to an office where my friends were working to deliver flowers. I had the idea, with nothing to do, wandering around Wheaton mall. I thought about the delivery for hours, as I marched to Downtown Silver Spring. I had never been to the office and didn't really call in my visit. I hung out with a street merchant and chatted in Spanish while I waited for any one of my friends in the office to get back to me with an address. I dropped the flowers off to a receptionist I'd never met, and I was too embarassed to see my friends, and too nervous to ask, and I never heard a word of thanks.

I'm unperturbed. I used to get furious about percieved things owed, logical or not. Now, I'm good with what I give regardless of what's given. They say if you love, you have to let go, no?

In Lana Del Rey's Coachella - Woodstock in my Mind she refers to her own little contribution to children and also their parents and the little things and attachments we have, along with dreams they hold so preciously, as they are in their most vulnerable moments, during a third prayer. Perhaps her inner writer got the better of her on that mouthfull. Her contribution, she says, is just that MAYBE her wishes will turn to birds, and birds would send her thoughts your way.

When I tell people I fast for Ramadan, it propels us apart. People percieve me slipping into a foreign identity, and they look at me like they never really knew me.
They wonder at whether I am Muslim. Nah, bitch, das a Jedi. 

"I could never do that" is what people often say. Today, I was hiking, training on a 10 mile hike for a march I will undertake across Spain. I thought of military training, which is way, way harder. Few people complete that traiting. For my walk, the El Camino de Santiago, more people complete it, but not everyone. Some people have even lost their lives on the pilgrimage.

I don't like when people self-depricate. I wish we'd share fewer inspiration quotes, and live out more dreams. Your dream is not at your 9-5 job. It's in your dreams and maybe in your life, to some extent, if you're lucky, smart, and can quiet your mind.

When people say they cannot do it, they mean they do not want to do it. Perhaps my story will show will help you consider and undertake a ramadan fasting practice...

My story illustrates that continuous work within the spirit, year after year, does culminate in something great. I ate fruit from an invisible tree that grew up on my sweat.

What is attention? This is something I've been thinking of. It's someone else impressing their opinions on you. But in your mind, what is attention? It's conceding a power that is uniquely yours, to recreate the world around you. Does that make sense? Is that what a baby does when it cries out for mama? No, not really. It's not the warm embrace of mom, either, because people seek attention through causing pain and destruction too. When I acted out as a child, I'd feel a compulsion out of anger it even felt like. Other times it feels like getting high on burning garbage. It's a singular, filthy high. It's not a good thing.

You can give yourself attention, too. You can regard the falling in the tree as a gift from your own deepest consciousness and celebrate yourself -- jump up and down, buy a whole pizza, and buy yourself a new car. What is attention? You can give the world around you attention, too, just by narrowing your focus and considering a thing. I am starting to think that the word 'attention' is many things we use the same word for.

Sorry, Qui-Gon, but you will find that you were mistaken about a great many things.

The Fifth Ramadan

The approaching inception (BRAAHMMM) of my fifth and most recent Ramadan brought on my yearly bout of jitters. After some regular ear-pulling and waffling, I was in...

I haven't written in my blog for more than a year. My last post is about Ramadan, actually. That's the last time I shared about my life. I wrote on the subject of intolerability. Specifically, how I would no longer tolerate other people's bullshit. That was a reaction to a grating and lackluster practice.

After that disheartening experience, I wanted to enhance my practice. I sought nothing less than a breakthrough. Without anyone telling me, I had the idea to raise the difficulty of my practice.

I added a personal challenge to my practice. I set out to have four conversations I feared for many years. I believed them to be impossible. These conversations ricocheted around my mind with such regularity they had carved themselves into the walls. They became recurrring, destructive, and negative shadows in my mind. Fear is sadness with teeth. I could not uproot this sadness privately; attention wasnt enough for me. I had to speak with these people and do something more real.

I had forgiven myself and the concerned parties one million times in my head to no avail. I came to realize a difficult truth: I had to talk to the person to exorcise their negative and lingering existence. 

July got hella spooky!!!

After each conversation, I told myself I was incapable of the next. 

"Our responbility begins with our imagination" -- Haruki Murakami

I believe in that, because I realize it's evident in my most honest moments. When you fail your imagination it's a little death and what people call a reminder of the smallness of the human experience, but there is nothing that forces failure. If a team of monkeys with typrewriters can write the bible, you can succeed in any design of the mind. Time culls your impetus, never your imagination. I think the major skill in life is designing systems that move on your call, so that your designs can still be projected, deftly and powerfully, but what do I know?  

After each conversation, I took a humongous breath and gave up on the next one. Days went on and I rededicated myself to my practice of Ramadan each morning, eating my final meal before the sun rose at around 4:30AM. My pain throughout the day, when I felt it in pangs of moments of weakness after a spiritied jog to catch the bus or a long walk in the sun, reminded me of everything I've gone through to get where I am - my whole life in those racing moments. I knew I could do it!!!!! If I could do Ramadan, I could have those conversations. 

I don't think its right to use names even in my private blog, so I depart from the specifics right now.

I am still elated I actually did it. In fact, I actually precipitated a tremendous fucking change in my life. I was going to compare it to slamming a sledgehammer into four different dams and one of them breaking loose and creating a new river -- but I think a more appropriate likeness is going around Luigi's mansion kicking furniture and then a great big ghost pops out and you suck it up and catch it in your ghost-vacuum!!! OOOooooOoooOOOOooooo!!! SPOOOOOOKY! 

I always felt rejuvinated once I could eat like a normal person again, after Ramadan had ended. But, especially after #4, I always felt like I needed more. Maybe I didnt push myself hard enough was my foremost supposition. Maybe I needed to not wake up late and eat at 6:00am so many times. Maybe I needed to cut water from my practice (which I actually did for the first time during #5 when I met a 16 year old standing up on a chair testifying to the wholistic benefits of his practice and I jumped in as a random person and we celebrated together but I felt guilt when I realized it was fear that held me back from fasting water too and not attention to my own health -- and by the way its total horse shit when people say its not healthy, but im not arguing for that here go goole it -- YEAH I SAID GOOLE AND IM NOT FGONNA CORRECT IT EITHER). Anyway...

What I found was that patience brought reward for all five of my practices to me in the way of the benefit I derived from personal challenges I devised after pushing myself to a higher and more spiritual standard for five consecutive years. 

I still have trouble explaining to people why I fast, except for the abundence of strength it affords me, for the firestorm of positive energy it floods my life with. I do not believe in God or Allah as the primogenitor of my benefits, but perhaps the onus, and the reason any of it moves in the first place. I can get down with that. I mean to say that in the moments where I 'cannot do it' I dont defer to a strength outside of myself. I re-dedicate myself in each moment of my practice and that reminds me that I can, indeed do it, becuase I do it every moment anyway and the truth is my mind conceives of impossibilities I simply need to smash through by consciencious effort. 

Update after Three Months

Ramadan changed my life. I have a woman I love and we will be living together. Before that I will be walking across the country of Spain, some 500+ kilometers, to reward myself for everything I've given to the world around me. On this trip I will reap the great bounty of things I've given to the world. It sounds paradoxical that I would gain anything when, for in the example of the flowers, I got nothing so much as a thank you -- but some of life's most profound discoveries are in de-puzzled paradox. A gift, without manipulation, should be loved, but does not have to be. The gift is as much to the giver and the reward is to the intention, not the joy it creates. Hmm, again I run into the paradox. Each time you give, you create an anchor within your consciousness and your soul that your mind considers in the amorphous swirl of the subconscious or river of eternal realities (whatever you believe) and there are moments when you call upon each of those anchors to inform your next move. That is very abstract, but that's how I've conceptualized of my own life. I know there's good in my heart and it can create a deep conviction I feel outward from my core and can be seen through my eyes. It's how I've faced down deadly competition and used dancing creativity to surmount impossible odds. It's a reality about the world and a rule that I defer to in every moment, because it's beneficent. Some might call it luck, or god -- I dont name it, I know how to feed and be fed. Right now, I am affixing a bib to my mother fucking self and performing competitive eating water-stretches, so that my stomach can be packed to the max on this trip, and I absolutely know it will. This trip is also dangerous. I've decided to go by myself. I hear that you link up with others on the path, and so that is a possibility, but I acknowledge that I accept a great gift with morbid peril in its shadow. I like to ascribe my willingness to naivety but its not and it never has been. I've always been more than willing to accept dangers other people shy away from and I won't stop until it kills me or (I imagine) I have children who I care too much about being a father for to endanger myself and, thus, them. All of this was galvanized by my Ramadan practice... Like, what the fuck... I've become the biggest proponent of the fast and I look forward to learning about the machination and applying its principles to my life more and more. 

I hardly remember the moment. I either dare not to look upon the words or have not found them in my journals when, in July 2014, I swore to myself I would, in my own thoughts... 1. Move to Seattle 2. Start Two Businesses 3. Move to Morocco... I succeeded in the first two and I am now going to Morocco, not to move, but to visit expectorante. In my mind, that means with the expectation of greatness to come on your sleeves. Yes, come on your sleeves -- it's the way to live. With the come on your sleeves so that everybody knows. A friend, Jerica, called me expectorante -- I believe was the word she used. In my memory, it is. I've either co-opted another word to this usage or I am correct. My investigation into Google suggests that I am wrong. Maybe it's local slang from Puerto Rico. Who is John Galt? I will go to Morocco with the opportunism of a colonizer, making connections and sensing opportunity. I will truly explore the countryside and draught deeply. It's the carrot I've held before me and I will take a bite becuase that's what's done with the carrot. Whether this is a grave misstep or not I'm not totally sure. It seems wrong to walk across Spain on a spiritual journey and then embark on a trip of luxurient business consideration in a strange land. Then again, I am the kind of guy who will eat ice cream on a lettuce leaf for breakfast. Still, there's something niggling that feels wrong here. I will continue to think and write of it. I believe that everyone feels a draw to zig and zag as they near the finish line, but that's something humans must never follow (?)