“Set out, pilgrim. Set out into the freedom and the wandering. Find your people. God is much bigger, wilder, more generous, and more wonderful than you imagined.”
― Sarah Bessey, Out of Sorts: Making Peace with an Evolving Faith
We had been on airplanes or in airports for the past 36 hours by the time we arrived at our hostel in Pamplona. The elevator-less hostel was located on the third floor of a building that also housed a market, apartments, and a bakery.
We pulled our backpacks up each flight of marble stairs, taking each step a little slower than the first. We stopped on the landing to catch our breath. I could tell my mom was exhausted, but she had taken a vow of not complaining on this pilgrimage. She was keeping true to her vow, but I could see the pure bone-weariness all over her face.
There was a tiny sign announcing we were at the door of our hostel and a black doorbell button. Is this it? I questioned, wondering if I had dragged my mom and I into a death trap. We pushed the button and were greeted by a short, bubbly Spanish man named Hugo. He was so excited to see us, hugging us, and shoving keys and a map of the city into our hands. When we told him we would be starting El Camino in two days, he looked as though he might explode in delight. “Fresh peregrinas!” he bellowed down the hallway. (A peregrino is a pilgrim and a peregrina is a female pilgrim. In Spanish, the last letter of a word tells you the gender of the noun.)
Our hostel wasn’t only for pilgrims, it was also a place where other travelers visiting Pamplona stayed. Most albergues only admit pilgrims and only allow them to stay for one night. Because of this rule, if a pilgrim gets injured and needs to rest or wants to visit a city for a few nights, they have to find other accommodations like a hostel, hotel, or airbnb. Since Pamplona is one of the first larger cities on El Camino, folks who are injured during their hike through the Pyrenees mountains often need to take rest days in Pamplona.
The lounge of the hostel was airy and light with grand picture windows and a third floor view of the streets below. The windows were flanked with overstuffed bookshelves holding volumes in dozens of languages, mostly travel guides, poetry books, and loads of Hemingway.
Hugo brought out tea and snacks for those of us hanging out at the hostel. I noticed a young woman out on the balcony writing in her journal. One foot was tightly wrapped in bandages. When she was done writing she came inside.
My mom can draw any stranger into a conversation.
“What’s your name?” my mom asked the young woman with the bandaged foot.
“Marie-Ange,” she replied sharing her beautiful French name.
My mom tried to repeat the name back to her several times with diminishing success.
Finally, my mom asked, “What does your name mean?”
“Marie is like Mary,” she explained. “Ange is angel.”
My mom’s face illuminated. “Mary Angel!” she squealed with glee, effusing about how much she loves Mary the Mother of God (as she calls her) and how wonderful she found Marie-Ange’s name to be.
We found out “Mary Angel” was a Canadian medical school student. She had walked from St. Jean Pied de Port (a popular town for pilgrims to debut their camino) and had blister-ridden feet and ankles from the dreaded climb up the Pyrenees mountain range. She was resting and recovering in Pamplona and planned to try walking again the same day we were setting out. Though she was walking alone, she had already made friends who had to continue without her. She grieved the fact that her “camino family” had already been separated.
We stepped out of Hostel Aloha that first morning with toast and cornflakes in our belly and fresh oranges stuffed in the side pockets of our backpacks alongside all of our earthly possessions for the next five weeks. I felt excited and nervous and relief that the day had finally come, today we were starting to walk the ancient pilgrimage, El Camino de Santiago.
Two blocks from the hostel we crossed through an open air bus station. As we ascended some steps in the station, I watched my mom trip and fall onto her wrist in what felt like slow-motion. Time slowed as I wanted to help her and also saw our pilgrimage being cut short after only minutes of walking. We hadn’t even reached the actual path yet—we were planning on intersecting it on the other side of the city. People waiting for a bus were milling about and watching us. We were clearly fresh pilgrims and were already struggling to get going.
“Oh my gosh! Are you okay?” I rushed to her side, helping her sit back up with the heavy tortoise shell of a backpack throwing off her balance. My mom was 55-years old, in decent shape, but by no means an athlete. She sat on the offending step that she had just tripped on for a moment and gathered herself. Marie-Ange stood nearby, ready to be back on the trail and visibly unsure if she should sit and wait with us or get on her way. It was late June. The longer into the day we lingered, the hotter the sun would become.
We turned her wrist over and looked at it, but couldn’t really tell if anything was seriously wrong. “Maybe we should just turn around and go back,” I wondered aloud. We were merely minutes from the hostel from the previous evening. We could rest and go from there.
My mom, ever the optimist, insisted we go on.
As the day progressed, her wrist began to swell and we wondered what this meant for us. We had a huge goal and it already was looking like we might not make it. We could turn around and go back into Pamplona. She could take some ibuprofen and wrap it and carry on.
I wondered what this meant for me and my journey, trying not to be selfish, but also knowing she was on her own Camino as well. She decided to wrap it, take Ibuprofen, and keep going. We didn't make it far before her grew pain so intense that we needed to stop. I was riding high on the adrenaline of starting and things were already screeching to a sudden halt. We barely made it to the next town and she was ready to turn in for the night, going to bed before the sun went down.
Sitting all afternoon and evening in Zariquiegui waiting to start again made me feel irritable and stir crazy. I was finally here and now I wasn't doing the thing I came to do.
But I was, wasn't I? I was on El Camino. I was with my mom. I was doing it.
But it felt slower than I wanted. I could still look back to see the lights of the city we started in. No pilgrimage can be walked in a day. You must pace yourself.
Maybe you have recently started a new journey. Maybe you keep restarting a project that feels never-ending. Maybe you are having a hard time gaining momentum. I imagine the journey you are on is not going the way you expected. In my experience, there are frequent bumps and setbacks along the way of any pilgrimage worth taking. Look around you. You are here. You are doing the thing. You are with your people. You are doing it. Just keep walking.
First Steps on El Camino
How wonderful to read this, and see el camino through your eyes! Looking forward to the next chapter! I also started in Pamplona, with my daughter, who was going to walk with me for two weeks. Set sails! Raise the flag! I'm here! 😍