Camino de Santiago - A Pilgrim's First Day
↠↠↠ Day 1. St. Jean Pied de Port, France
On April 1st my bus arrived to St. Jean Pied de Port. It was the first day the passage through the Pyrenees mountains was open, which signaled the beginning of the season on the Camino. I raced my way through town to the municipal albergue (shelter), keeping an eye on the mass of novice pilgrims beelining it for the same spot. I left my shoes at the door, signed in, and walked into the 16-bed room. The stench in the air was impossible to miss. As I stepped in, a twenty something man with unkempt hair, faded clothes, and the type of sunburn on his face that takes years of exposure to the elements to accumulate informed me that this was the 8th month of his pilgrimage. I immediately began to wonder if I was actually cut out for this experience.
Once I secured a bed in the small albergue, nice and far from the true pilgrim, I walked up the narrow, cobble street to get my pilgrim passport. An older man from Madrid, with an uncanny resemblance to Paulo Coelho, paired me with the person directly in front of me and began our orientation. Staying true to my nature I asked too many questions: “Is it the arrow or the shell that I should follow? What if the albergues all fill up, is it a good strategy to call ahead each evening and reserve a bed? How many days does this pilgrimage actually take and are the stages fixed distances?”
To my new partner’s annoyance, the man from Madrid addressed each of my questions with great care and patience. Additionally, he imparted two pieces of wisdom:
To journal each day
To understand that the Camino only ended in Santiago symbolically. Signs would continue to guide each individual on her life’s path, beyond the official steps of the Camino.
Before handing us our passports and shells, he warned that pilgrimages often turn into lifelong addictions.
That night I went to bed nervous and excited. A lone snore erupted in the corner and slowly turned into a symphony throughout the room. Unable to sleep, I began fishing around my pack for the small L’occitane cream I bought that morning - seemingly a lifetime ago. The hand cream was my 10mls of luxury. I dabbed a small amount of the cherry blossom scent on my nose to cancel out the intensity of the stench no amount of time spent in the room could get my nose used to. (This would become a nightly ritual for me.)
Somewhere between awake and asleep, at an unknown hour, I had a dream. I saw an old brown coat that looked faded, warn, and full of holes. It was folded over the arm rest of a wooden chair and gave the impression of belonging to a different time. As I got closer, I recognized the item and felt its meaning wash over me - I was in the right place and everything was exactly as it needed to be. I started to feel warmth flow and tingle through my body, signaling absolute safety, protection and belonging. In this moment of reassurance, I understood: I was alive; my time was finite; I was on my path. The dream left me with an indescribable sense of unfamiliar peace.