"Are you the Alaskan?" I asked a blonde woman sitting outside at the albergue.
"Yes I am," she smiled
"So you're the reason I've had to tell three people today that Alaska is part of the US?" She cackled.
Liz is the friend of Shirley and Marriett's who had slept on the floor the night before. "I tell people I'm from Alaska, not America, because Alaska is so different, but that is funny." We chatted a bit about the US and traveling. Liz is a freelance wedding videographer, and since all of her clients are during Alaska's short summer, she has been traveling in her off time. I learned she's still very young, early 20s, so this was her first big trip. And she's LOVED it. I listed to her stories for a bit. I'm always happy to meet a woman who's stepped out of traditional paths.
"So what brings you back to the Camino?" She asked me.
I paused for a bit. "I've overworked for years. I've been burned out for much longer than I realized. I knew it had been the past year or so, but if you count when I stopped doing hobbies...it's been about 8. I'm in this cycle of I've done everything I'm 'supposed' to do. I have the highest level of education you can get. It was very hard, and you're not paid hardly anything. So I worked full and part time through most of my PhD. I've had some prestigious jobs that weren't all they were cracked up to be. And then I graduated and my rent went up 40%. So I bought a condo with these horrible interest rates, thinking I'd at least have some rent control, but then my condo fees went up 30%. So now I'm still working full and part time out of fear of losing my security. I'm ok now financially, but it's taken so much life out of me. And I'm in this habit of overworking because the cost of living keeps going up and I'm always afraid I'm going to lose it all."
"Mm, that's the cycle they get you in," Liz said, drawing a circle in the air with her hands.
"So I came on the Camino again...to break that habit. To try to think about how I want to do the next stage in life. Because working this much for this long, is just not sustainable."
"It's been so amazing to see how slowly Europeans live," Liz said. "I didn’t know there was another way to live. It’s like we're in our own bubble in the States."
"Everyone is," I said, never able to completely take my "psychologist hat" off. "That's how culture works."
I spared Liz the lecture, but I was reminded of an analogy I frequently reference. I started the second paper of my dissertation with this brief story:
A fish doesn't think about being in water (I assume, I've never asked a fish), just like we don't think about pushing through air all of the time. Culture defines the behaviors that are not just rewarded, but expected, in an environment. In our own cultures, we don't see these behaviors as cultural. We see them as "just the way things are." It is only when we are in a culture that is different than our own, that we notice the water.
One of the strongest reasons to travel is to see the water that others are swimming in. My water is to overwork. And I know I'm not happy in my water.
I have struggled to step out of my own water here. I realized that the reason I was meeting people who had a hard time finding hostel beds but still found them was...because they were risking it and trusting the process, while I was playing it safe. I played it safe and booked ahead so as to not worry. I worried that I would be too anxiety ridden during my walks if I didn't know I had somewhere to stay. The result was that I was disappointed and didn't have anything to look forward to when I finished walking. And I was walking late into the evening, covering long distances to make it to a guaranteed spot. In seeking structure, I had built my own cage. The pilgrims I envied were the ones who had found a way to enjoy the way without the security.
On my walk the next day, I cancelled my last private room in São João. It was a short walk to my planned stop, where I didn't have the reservation but had called the hostel. There weren't any albergues showing up around the São João area. I called an albergue 10 km pst my planned stop for today. The albergue had a bed, and I booked it. That would make my next day to Porto very long, almost 40km. And the next albergue didn't take reservations. It would be risky, walking for so long without a reservation. But I was done with playing it safe.
I reached my initially planned destination shortly after, and ran into many pilgrims from the night before, including Liz. She asked where I was staying. I told her my new plan.
"Oh wow, that's a long second day. I haven't done anything that long."
"I've already done several, for private rooms. But I had reservations, this albergue doesn't reserve." She looked at me wide eyed.
"But what's a Camino without a little risk?" I asked her. "Now, it'll be my turn to sleep on the floor." She laughed. I sat in a park for lunch. As I left, I heard Liz yelling behind me, "Bye Anna, bom camihno!" I waved at her with my trekking poles.
The albergue I did have booked for that night was called Casa Católico, which translates to "Catholic house." I was a little nervous. What makes the us house Catholic? Is it a monastery? Is it my dad's house? Am I going to be able to wash my underwear and hang it to dry?
When I arrived, a big sign out front said it was a hostel for pilgrims and by pilgrims. Interesting. It was also a donativo, meaning it runs on donations.
"You must be Anna," the hostlier said when I walked in. I assumed he remembered me from my phone call two hours before. I learned his name was Paulo. He was switching between English, Spanish, and Portuguese as he checked pilgrims in.
Other pilgrims were talking about the struggle to find beds, and where they were going the next day. I told them my plan to go to Groja, almost 40 km away.
"There are other places not in the books," Paulo said. He pulled out a peace of paper showing stops between that albergue and Porto. He pointed to one 28 km away. That would be 28 km tomorrow, instead of my planned 40. And 26km the next day. Reasonable.
“If you stop here, it is more balanced," Paulo said.
Don’t be a hero, I reminded myself.
I called the hostel Paulo suggested. They didn't speak English, but they seemed to understand it, and seemingly reserved a bed for me for the next night.
Trusting the process.
Paulo escorted everyone to their rooms. There was a main house and two other buildings for pilgrims. He walked me toward one room.
"Hmm, but if the other two come...they are men," he was thinking out loud. "No, I will put you here." He took me to another room. "We try to keep the men and women separate unless they are a couple," he said
Ah, that’s what makes this house Catholic, I thought.
There were three beds in the room. "You might have this whole room to yourself tonight, unless other ladies surprise us," Paulo said.
So sorry for your loss, fellas.
As Paulo left the room he said, "and if you need anything, don't bother me." I turned around. He was smiling, "I'm just kidding."
"I'm going to be extra annoying now," I told him. He laughed.
I unpacked my bag, showered, washed my clothes, and hung all of them, even my undies, to dry with no problems. There seemed to be no Catholic modesty concerns here. Even so, the blood of Christ was all over this place:
And another very important albergue warning:
I spent the rest of the day lazily writing either this blog or reading in a hammock. It was the slowest day I've had in a while and it was lovely.
I popped my head out of the hammock when I heard a can open. Ginger, the Hungarian woman from the night before, saw me and laughed.
"It's just a coke!" She said. "Did you think it was a beer?"
"Yes."
"Do you want one? A coke or a beer?"
"No...I'm going to get wine instead."
I poured a glass and joined her and Elsa as they chatted. Elsa is Portuguese.
"How far do you live from here?" I asked her.
"About 110 kms?" She said.
"Oh so walking distance!" I said. We all laughed.
"Yes, when she gets to Santiago she will have to walk back home! No train for her." Ginger added. #pilgrimjokes
After a chat, I grabbed my journal (the one I've been ripping pages from), to do my daily expressive writing. Paulo saw and asked me, "are you a writer?" I told him no, and briefly mentioned that I blog my travel for fun but this was just journaling.
"Writing what happens daily is good for the memory," he said.
"Yeah you're telling me. I always feel silly doing it, but l had a brain injury five years ago that impacted my memory, so I'm really glad I have. It helps me remember."
He was setting up tables for dinner. He looked quizzical, but continued setting up and several pilgrims helped him. He refused help from me, so back the hammock I went.
At 7:30, we all had dinner together. This is the beauty of albergues, especially donativos. They bring everyone together.
Afterward, my Older Sister of Four Younger Brothers came out, and I established the cleanup line in the kitchen.
"I'll wash, you dry."
"Fellas, that's not where the dishes go, put them to our right like everyone else did."
"Paulo do you want these glasses air dried or towel dried?"
Dinner for 13 was cleaned up in 10 minutes with everyone's help...)even the guys who didn't know how an assembly line worked). We all then retired to our respective gender-segregated rooms.
I was out of bed by 6:45 am the next morning, and almost everyone was already gone. Paulo chatted with me while I ate breakfast.
"So Anna, what happened with the...?" He tapped his head.
"Oh, I was on the interstate in Miami, a very busy road. And the tire on the truck popped. So the vehicle crashed into the guardrail on the side of the road, and I hit my head pretty hard." He didn't have a reaction, just listened.
"It slowed me down for a long time. I still have side effects. And it was hard to recover from because I was still in my PhD program and insurance wouldn't cover a lot of the treatments I needed. So it took a long time to get it because they were expensive. It's better now but not perfect. So I guess that's why I keep writing things down. My first Camino was very special."
He smiled listening to my Camino stories. He clearly loves the Camino so much. I told him a friend I'd made in the Frances would be meeting me in Porto to walk the rest of the way.
After breakfast, I packed up my backpack and went to say bye to Paulo.
"Alright, I'm heading out," I told him.
"No you're not," he said.
He brought a box and opened it. It was full of small crocheted hearts.
"What's this?" I asked.
"I don't know, you will find out," he said.
I laughed. Apparently, a former pilgrim from the Netherlands sends them to him.
"It is a sign of love," he said. "In fact, you should take two, one for you and one for your friend."
"Oh yes! That would be great, thank you!" I said.
He gave me and my backpack I was already wearing a hug, and I headed out.
"And Anna!" He called back after me. "Try to keep two hands on the wheel next time, alright?" He tapped his brain.
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