tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57502400543374224892024-02-08T10:34:13.721-05:00On The Camino de SantiagoMatt Straushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04884914554503168346noreply@blogger.comBlogger39125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750240054337422489.post-34141726989322317212010-08-10T15:48:00.001-04:002010-08-10T15:50:19.327-04:00The End (Of The World (As We Know It))<span style="font-style:italic;">3:45 PM, August 10, Near the City of Cee, On the Fisterra-Santiago Bus, Seat 27</span><br /><br />Today, Day 32, was my final day in Spain. And where better to visit on your final day than the end of the earth?<br /><br />Dan and I took a bus to Finis Terrae and walked 3 kilometers (I know, even when you take a bus, you still need to walk kilometers…a pilgrim’s journey never seems to end). We arrived at the lighthouse where we took pictures and looked out over the Atlantic. No point in the continent of Europe is farther West than this point.<br /><br />We then found out from a worker in the lighthouse that although there were big painted signs on rocks that said “No Fires!” we could find a place where there is little vegetation among the rocks and light a few pieces of our clothing on fire. This is a tradition that goes back to the original pilgrimages to Finis Terrae; since pilgrims were just forgiven for all of their sins in Santiago, they then went to Finis Terrae to burn their clothing and jump into the Atlantic. When they came out of the water, their new life would begin, free of sin and on a holy path. Today, we symbolized this by burning pieces of our clothing (I burned my bad socks that were one of the more glaring causes of my blisters) and then washing our hands in the water. I threw the source of my pain in the fire and watched it burn, seeing the flames eliminate the past and clearing a way to the future.<br /><br />Perhaps this is the end of the world as I know it, as I start my life anew, fresh and pure. And, indeed, this was the end of the world, as far as the Romans knew. And, true, this is the end of my time in Spain. However, it doesn’t end here. I luckily have one more day of flights (from Santiago to Madrid to Dallas to Chicago) to collect my final thoughts and have one last look at this past month on the Road. More to come soon.Matt Straushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04884914554503168346noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750240054337422489.post-1860823811669355302010-08-09T16:04:00.001-04:002010-08-09T16:04:57.782-04:00The Cathedral and The Catharsis<span style="font-style:italic;">9:43 PM, August 9, Monte do Gozo, Municipal Albergue, Room 2809, Bed 1</span><br /><br />I did it.<br /><br />We reached Santiago today. I was tearing up during these last 5 kilometers into the city. <br /><br />We took pictures in the square, reunited with old friends, and told jokes to make light of the serious emotions.<br /><br />We went to the Pilgrim Office and stood in a long line to get our Compostela certificates. I cried a stream of tears for 10 minutes in line, realizing that I had done it.<br /><br />I did it.<br /><br />We went to store our bag at the bag storage. We saw more old friends and traded hugs and congratulations.<br /><br />We went to the noon mass. I stood in the front center section to the left. I cried for the first half of the mass. It was beautiful and emotional. I was happy and satisfied, for the first time in a very, very long time.<br /><br />I did it.<br /><br />We went for lunch and said goodbye to some friends. We reunited in the square with more old friends. We went to check bus times for Fisterra tomorrow. <br /><br />We returned to the cathedral. I took pictures. I offered my personal prayers. I cried. I prepared to give my confessional while waiting for it to open in English. I cried some more. I gave my confession and, in the eyes of the Catholic Church, was absolved of all of my sins from my entire life. I cried a lot during that part.<br /><br />I did it.<br /><br />I parted from the remaining friends. We said our final goodbyes. Dan and I walked the 5 kilometers back to Monte do Gozo. We saw another old friend. We shared dinner.<br /><br />I came back to our room to write. I cried a little bit more. I’m happy and satisfied.<br /><br />I did it.Matt Straushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04884914554503168346noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750240054337422489.post-90395146730360992532010-08-08T15:08:00.001-04:002010-08-08T15:08:39.839-04:00The Saying9:07 PM, Same Cafeteria<br /><br />I have heard a popular saying about the Camino: The first third (to Burgos) is hard on your body; the second third (the Meseta, from Burgos to Leon) is hard on your mind; the final third (from Leon to Santiago) is hard on both.<br /><br />I propose to revise this saying to reflect my own experiences: The first third is hard on your body; the second third is hard on your mind; and the final third is hard on your heart.<br /><br />The first third is hard on your body. I don’t think I need to explain why to anyone who has been following what one reader referred to as my “blisterblog.” Frankentoe speaks for himself, and the pain that I felt in my feet was like none other. In fact, even at the time of this writing, my feet still look as though they lost a fight to a food processor. But by Burgos, they felt good enough for my feet to be able to carry me normally into the Meseta.<br /><br />The second third is hard on your mind. With kilometers and kilometers of flat plains surrounding you for as far as your eyes can see, you have the blood-curdling realization that you are alone with your thoughts. Knowing that you have 4 hours with nothing to be a stimulus to your mind except your own wandering thoughts, you are forced to accept the way in which your mind wants to move you. You are forced to explore your thoughts, explore why you think the way you do, revisit important events from your past and explore why your response was what it was, but most importantly of all—to me at least—you are forced to think about who each of these characters in your life really is and how that relationship can and should change.<br /><br />The final third, however, is hard on your heart. The final third is the merger between the past and the future; this is the bridge portion in which what I learned on the Camino gets transferred to how my life operates. I now know that I will need to have some tough conversations with some people in my life, some for the better, some for the worse. I know that I will need to say goodbye to the Camino, to the friends I have met, and to this wonderful struggle which has consumed the past month. This is tough, and my heart grows heavy with the responsibility.<br /><br />However, I am prepared, for I have become stronger in body, mind, and heart on the Camino.Matt Straushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04884914554503168346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750240054337422489.post-21526825465323985652010-08-08T15:05:00.001-04:002010-08-08T15:07:53.535-04:00The "Mi Casi es Su Casi"9:06 PM, August 8, Monte do Gozo Cafeteria (with Gwendal and Gottfried)<br /><br />For the last 200 km, some humor-filled jokester has been adding graffiti to the Camino. Above the yellow arrows every so often, this humorist has written “CASI.”<br /><br />While Gottfried thought that it was just someone writing her name, I think it was much more than that. Casi, in Spanish, means “Almost.” And now, sitting only 5 km from Santiago, no word could describe it better.<br /><br />Excitement fills the air and people are almost there, almost at the clincher of their journey. The Road is almost over, my walk is almost complete, my Camino friends and family are almost gone. Almost, almost, almost. <br /><br />“Almost,” like the Bowling for Soup song of the same name implies, could be a bad thing, too. Almost doing good enough, almost reaching your goal, almost arriving at the end—all of these would be rather horrible, if they were the end of the story. And, believe me there have been plenty of almost moments in my life. Some almost moments have been followed by moments of climax where the end is reached; others, however, have been sad stories of a ship that never sailed. As today is one of the former, perhaps I can work toward making my life full of the former type of almost and lacking in the latter.<br /><br />But today is not the end of this Camino story. Today is Almost because Tomorrow is The End. So, allow me to enjoy my final hours of Almost. When I write tomorrow, it will be with Compostela in hand!Matt Straushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04884914554503168346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750240054337422489.post-49260836953805453492010-08-07T15:42:00.003-04:002010-08-07T15:45:52.362-04:00The Day in the Life6:33 PM, August 7, Arzua, Via Lactea Albergue, Room 4, Bed 4<br /><br /><br />(It’s about time I give you the pilgrim’s experience, finally sharing what a true day for me is like. Get ready and don’t forget to pack anything!)<br /><br />You hear the person in the bed next to you jump down, but you don’t want to open your eyes just yet. You hear them grab bags and start packing. You make a silent prayer that they will respect the silence of the room and the fact that you’re still “asleep.” Your prayer fails, and you hear as they spend an agonizingly long time getting some damned plastic grocery bag into their backpack. You open your eyes. <br /><br />Your iTouch reads 11:10 pm, which clearly means it’s 5:10 am and about time to start your day. You lay in bed for another few minutes before climbing out and beginning to gather your own stuff. Since you’re a respectful pilgrim, you grab all of your bag’s fillers Rachel-Ray style and carefully balance it all as you carry it into the dimly lit hallway of the albergue. You pack your stuff, get on your shorts and shirt for the day, fill your pockets with your iTouch, wallet, camera, and pilgrim’s credential, and then find a good place to sit. Once seated, you rub spf 50 all over your body, paying special attention to the back of your neck so that the others don’t have a “real” excuse to call you a redneck (true story). You deodorize, obviously, and brush your teeth.<br /><br />And then you deal with your feet. First, you put Betadine on a ton of band-aids of varying sizes and apply those band-aids to all of the open blisters. You then wrap athletic tape around the last two digits of each foot, around the balls of each foot, around the big toes on each foot, around the heel, and under the heel. You then carefully slide on your socks, being careful not to damage the excellent tape job you just did. Your shoes come next--slowly of course, as you wouldn’t want to hurt your feet by jamming them in. You put on your backpack and you’re ready to go!<br /><br />As you set out in the darkness of the morning, your first job is to locate your first yellow arrow, pointing you in the direction of the newest leg of the Road. As odds would have it, you will pass a church (since the Camino chooses to pass every single rundown church in Northern Spain) and there will be a potable water fountain outside. You stop at that fountain to fill up your Camelback, and you move on. Within minutes, you are outside of the small pueblo that you stayed in for the night, and you are out into the wild world of rural Spain. <br /><br />You walk for 5-10 km.<br /><br />You come across another pueblito, some tiny city with a name almost as unmemorable as the last. It’s breakfast time and you find a small bar. Perhaps you order a bocadillo de queso, or if you want something sweet you could order a pan de chocolate. Perhaps you order a café con leche, or if you want something sweet you could order a cacao. But don’t forget! You’re in Europe, so the coffee is small in quantity and has no refills at all. Ever. You ask the bartender if she has a stamp, and she does; you pull out your credential and add another splotch of purple ink to your proof-of-journey card.<br /><br />You walk for 10-15 km.<br /><br />You’ve passed quite a few more pueblitos at this point, but you’ve been holding out on your next break for the big city, and here it is. With a farmacia, 4 bars, a hotel, and two albergues, this city of 900 citizens is a massive city, at least as far as the daily Road is concerned. This time you have a bit more of an appetite so you order a tortilla de queso and a Coca-Cola. Don’t get too excited, my Mexican food fan: a tortilla de queso is a scrambled egg and cheese sandwich on French bread. Go figure. The Coca-Cola is cool and refreshing, perhaps because it is a blistering 32 degrees outside, or perhaps because it’s made with real sugar. (Hear that Coke? Stop using high-fructose corn syrup!)<br /><br />You walk for 8-10 km.<br /><br />You’ve finally made it to your stopping place for the day! You find a local albergue, most likely by asking your friends which one is rated the best in their guidebooks, since you weren’t smart enough to plan ahead and bring a guidebook in your own language. (“This one has three shells! Quick, head left!”) You choose your albergue, and enter at about midday. The hospitalero takes your money, takes your name, and stamps your credential and then leads you through to the room. Boots go there, walking sticks in this bin, showers on your left, bathrooms on the right, this is your bed. Lights out at 22:00, and silence please to respect the other pilgrims. Leave by 8 but please don’t leave before 6 so that everyone can get a good night’s sleep. (You’re still yet to rest at an albergue where everyone listened to that last part. You’ll just blame it on an apparent language gap.)<br /><br />You slowly peel off your socks, and peel off the tape. It’s painful to you. Very, very painful. You pop any new blisters (there’s always at least one), grab your soap and towel and clothes, and head to the showers to try to it while the hot water lasts. After your shower, you return to your room and grab your dirty clothes. (As Jason Mraz might say, What time is it? It’s LAUNDRY TIME!)<br />You walk to the back garden area of the albergue with your clothes and detergent soap, and find a sink with a washboard attachment and know that its time to start scrubbing. You clean your clothes in the sink, wring them out, and then find a sunny spot on the clothesline, hoping they are dry by nightfall. <br /><br />You then grab your wallet, ready to head to the local panaderia or sweet shop to pick up an afternoon snack. But, alas, as always, it seems as though the annoying siesta has already began and you can get nothing because nothing is open in the entire pueblo. Ah, the siesta.<br /><br />As such, you climb into bed and nap.<br /><br />When you wake up, it’s a little before dinnertime. You’re starving, but, really, it’s too late to take advantage of the fact that siesta is over and grab some cookies--you’d spoil your dinner! So you read, write, blog, emaily your mom and tell her you’re fine--the usual. <br /><br />Finally, it’s 19:00 and dinnertime. You and your friends head out of the albergue together to find the nearest bar that has a menu peregrino. You find one, and an un-personable waiter takes his sweet time coming over to your table to take your orders. When he does arrive, he stands there with his pen just staring until you start ordering. For your 10 Euro prix fixe pilgrim’s menu, you order the vegetable soup as your starter, and the filete de ternera (translated “steak,” but this translation is as good as calling a bag of bush trimmings a tree) as your main course. Ice cream is a good choice for the postre, and the waiter is going to bring a bottle of wine and a bottle of water for the table, along with bread. When you ask for salt to flavor the bland, oily food, the waiter brings the usual tray that has two shakers of salt, an olive oil bottle, and an identical bottle of lemon juice and vinegar mix. <br /><br />After dinner, you get back to your albergue and realize it’s already nearly 21:00. Perhaps you head to a bar with the German-Austrian group who always want another beer or three before bed. Perhaps you sit and talk with a fellow English speaker in the gardens. Perhaps you relax alone, writing or reading in your bed. At any case, as 22:00 nears, you climb into bed and get comfortable. You put in your headphones to hear a little iTouch music before you fall asleep, and you slowly close your eyes.<br /><br />But you forgot to take in your laundry from the clothesline! So you quickly hop out of bed, put on your sandals, and flip-flop-flip down the hallway to the garden to grab your clothes. You return, throw them haphazardly on your backpack, and return to your music.<br /><br />A nice slow song comes on, and you feel as though you are in limbo where your body is stopping its daily churn to relax for the sleep that is crawling over you. You pull out your headphones, roll over, and prepare for sleep.<br /><br />And that’s when the guy in the bed next to you (the same one who is going to wake you up with his grocery bag tomorrow morning--you’ve already seen the bag!) sounds like he’s choking on air in a gigantic snore. Amazingly, he is one of the masses who has mastered the art of snoring on both the inhale and exhale. You sit there thinking, I am never going to get to sleep, for about 20 minutes while listening to him saw an entire forest down. <br /><br />At some point, your eyes close and you are transported to a world of Camino dreams. Your dreams will often take characters from your “real life” and put them on the Camino with you so that you can have meaningful conversations and interactions. <br /><br />But before long, you hear the person in the bed next to you jump down…Matt Straushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04884914554503168346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750240054337422489.post-77415277824000059882010-08-06T15:45:00.000-04:002010-08-06T15:46:53.037-04:00The Supernatural6:31 PM, August 6, Palas del Rey, Municipal Albergue, Bed 64<br /><br />Beyond the creepy graveyards and obviously haunted ancient churches that line the Camino, there are some supernatural beings that also can cause quite a scare. While my sister has spent the last few days collecting “photographic evidence” of ghosts in the Chicagoland area, I have been busy scaring up some stories of my own.<br /><br />The Witches: Galicia is a province that was at one point settled by Celtic peoples; as such, some of the folklore has carried over into the modern day. By tradition, almost all of the bars in Galicia will have at least one witch perched next to the liquor or suspended from the ceiling. Some bars have witches everywhere you look, and it has become exciting to point them out and pick out the ugliest.<br /><br />The Demons: If Dante had ever walked the Camino, he would have realized that there are really only three levels of Hell, each lined with its own type of demon. The uppermost level is the cyclists who have biked the Camino since St. Jean. While they mean well, it’s annoying to have to step out of the way whenever they ding their stupid bells at you and to watch them coast downhill like it’s nothing. Not fair. The second level of Hell belongs to a worse type of demon: the tourist. Since Sarria, the last town that you can start from and still receive your Compostela, thousands of tourist pilgrims have joined the Camino and started walking. With their reservations, their complaints, their lack of camaraderie, and their overall mentality of “The Camino is for ME,” it’s easy to despise them for thinking their 100 km is just as good as your 800 km. The final and deepest level of Hell, containing the worst demons, is owned by the obvious group: the tourist cyclists. No explanation needed. (Gottfried, an Austrian friend, would be remiss if I didn’t mention the deep pit in the center of Hell where we throw the tourists who walk on the Camino blasting music, talking on walkie-talkies, or—get this—trading stocks on a cell phone.)<br /><br />The Ogre: Today, while waiting in a line for the albergue to open, a kind Slovakian woman moved her bag and her friend’s up when the line moved forward. A big mean Spanish man in a pink shirt then lost his mind. The (tourist) ogre yelled at her in Spanish; when she clearly didn’t understand, he turns to the others sitting around and called her a “fucking backward Polack” (translation). He then tried yelling at her in English, which was also unsuccessful, and apparently painfully so. Tears welled up in this poor woman’s eyes, and we felt terrible. I had even tried to explain why she moved the two bags (her friend was right around the corner) but he quickly cast me off. She was scared to pass the ogre and stand in front of him in line when the albergue opened and stood off to the side in tears until her friend came and walked with her in front of him. Gottfried, Daniel, the Italians, and I even had a plan: should the guy have yelled again, I was going to stand up to him since I spoke Spanish, get punched in the face and get knocked out (I can admit that I’m probably a one-punch kind of guy), and then Gottfried was going to rush to my aid with pepper spray and the others were going to beat up this ogre, once and for all. Maybe tomorrow.<br /><br />The Giants: While sitting and eating dinner two nights ago, we hear a snare drum roll and horns start to blare and we turn to see two giant humans made out of wood and plastic and paint turn the corner. These two giants then danced with each other to the music, and we learned that these are the Gigantes de Barcelona. They then continued their parade through Sarria. The next morning, after walking an hour in the darkness, we rounded a corner to see the giants walking the Camino with the herd of orange-shirted supporters. After they took a break, we were then being chased by the giant people and the orange herd. We’ve come to learn they are tourist pilgrims who are walking the Camino for a publicity stunt for their group, placing them squarely in the second-and-a-half level down in Hell. I’ve now formally decided I don’t like giants or orange herds (but I guess herds of oranges would be fine…).<br /><br />The Ghost: Today, I told Dan a story about a ghost from my past. It was painful to tell the story, but it was good to revisit it, as I had done in my mind often while crossing the Meseta. This ghost has haunted me for quite some time, and after talking with Dan I came to accept that I still have a lot of thinking to do before I’m able to exorcise the ghost’s presence. Ironically enough, when I checked my mail today in Palas del Rey, I found an email from the ghost, sent during the same period of time when I was telling Dan the story. Spooked and jarred in a way, I found myself in tears not too long ago while sitting in bed. Perhaps it is good to be haunted, for is a ghost not a perfect reminder not to make the same mistakes again?<br /><br />The Frankenstein Monster: My left pinky toe is now a veritable Frankenstein monster. With scars and cuts and scrapes and skin peeling away and nail falling off, it looks like it could have only been created in a lab and then surgically pieced together onto my foot. However, my Frankentoe—or Frank, as I like to call him—can add humor to any situation. “How’s Frankentoe?” a friend will ask. I easily respond, “He’s attached to my foot, obviously. That’s how Frank’s in tow.”Matt Straushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04884914554503168346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750240054337422489.post-37017043430758171112010-08-04T10:10:00.002-04:002010-08-04T10:12:25.465-04:00The Massive Update!Wow! 4 new blog posts and 1 new fiction story! How do I do it? (I do it by arriving at the albergues really quickly, then realizing there is no internet within 12 km of my stopping place, then deciding I'll write on my computer despite the lack of internet.)<br /><br />Here's a massive update, from Sarria in Galicia. 112 km to go!Matt Straushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04884914554503168346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750240054337422489.post-92213496052509969572010-08-04T10:06:00.004-04:002010-08-04T10:10:01.065-04:00The American Pride<span style="font-style:italic;">4:06 PM, Sarria (Galicia), La Bruja Bar</span><br /><br />I thought I was sick and tired of people giving me a hard time for being an American. After arguing with Dan today about a lot of "stupid American things," I have decided that I'm even more proud to be an American, despite a lot of things that could be better. I'm also finding myself wishing that people would be more intellectual than "my country's (insert system here) is better than America's (insert same system here) because it works for me." <br /><br />America's not perfect, but I wish the Europeans would just grow up and respect that different systems each have their pros and cons and acknowledge that their system is not inherently the best simply because it's theirs.Matt Straushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04884914554503168346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750240054337422489.post-14775169439229663762010-08-04T10:05:00.001-04:002010-08-04T10:05:41.149-04:00The Epic Day<span style="font-style:italic;">(Pictures will follow soon)<br /><br />9:00 PM, August 3, Hospital de la Condesa, Municipal Albergue, Bed 20</span><br /><br />Today was a wonderful day. <br /><br />Dan and I left our albergue early and walked to breakfast in a town 10 km away. There, we encountered 3 very friendly town borrachos, as well as Lia, Inigo, and Rafael (the Canadian, the Spaniard, and the Frenchman). It was wonderful to see some old friends and to talk with the young guys who were drinking Beefeater at 8 am.<br /><br />I then gathered the courage to ask Dan to go on without me. It has been rather suffocating to spend all of our walks together every day. I had spent literally every minute of the last week within 30 feet of him, and I wanted the feeling of walking alone again.<br /><br />It was excellent. I waited by a peaceful river for 20 minutes before continuing the hike. Today was first on the highway, then through a series of small towns, then a hike through a forest, then a steep climb to the top of a mountain, then some walking through pastures on the top of the mountain to the final destination. To walk alone helped me to really enjoy the breaths of fresh mountain air.<br /><br />I also talked with many people with whom I had been meaning to talk. Dan isn’t as friendly and is very, very focused when he walks, so he rarely even says “Hola” when passing peregrinos. I like to at least greet everyone I pass, if not strike up a conversation. Today I spoke with two elderly Spanish women for a couple hundred meters, I had a long awaited kilometer next to Giuseppe—an Italian man who has been staying with us for two weeks now but who I never got the chance to meet—and I spent 3 kilometers with an American man who graduated in the same class as Coach K at West Point. All had fascinating stories to tell, and all were fun to walk with, even though I also enjoyed the long stretches alone.<br /><br />At the top of one of the peaks is a monument letting pilgrims know that they are leaving the Junta de Castilla y Leon and entering the final state in this journey, Galicia. I’m now in the province of Lugo and there are monuments every so often that are counting down the kilometers to Santiago. We’re now 6 days from our destination, and less than 150 kilometers to go. I’m in the final fifth!<br /><br />Perhaps my favorite moment of the day was this: Following the high point of the day, there is a slight descent where there is forest on the left, and the pastures and small cities lining the mountain in the valleys on the right. The sun was warming, and the earth had that “earth” smell—a sweet, comforting smell I had never smelled before this trip, but now it’s become quite common. And there I was, walking alone, no one around me, and singing “Breakeven” with a seriously out-of-pitch voice. Epic.Matt Straushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04884914554503168346noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750240054337422489.post-75057959518868383802010-08-04T10:04:00.001-04:002010-08-04T10:04:55.124-04:00The Santiago Pilgrim<span style="font-style:italic;">4:40 PM, August 2, Pereje Municipal Albergue, Bed 12</span><br /><br />I am a Santiago Pilgrim. By pure coincidence, the two books I chose to bring on the Road are perfect.<br /><br />In The Alchemist, a Spanish shepherd boy has a dream and is told to follow his dream by making a pilgrimage to Egypt. He learns about listening to his heart and following his dreams; he learns to refuse the temptation to settle for less than what his heart desires in its fullest. His name is Santiago.<br /><br />In Slaughterhouse Five, a veteran of World War II recounts his tale of living through the firebombing of Dresden. He explains that he often time-travels and has been abducted by aliens—the Tralfamadorians—who see into the fourth dimension. The aliens teach Billy, the veteran, to realize that life can be viewed as the good moments or the bad or a mix of the two, and it’s our choice to focus on the moments. Billy’s last name is Pilgrim. <br /><br />Last Wednesday, in Leon, I had to say goodbye to Lisa. After excitement with Boris, a Camino Family dinner, and a great talk—just her and I—in the courtyard, her time was up. She had to catch her plane back home. So it goes. After deciding to walk two days further than originally anticipated, Lida had her last night in the city of Astorga. We had a wonderful dinner and a great breakfast together. And then I hugged her goodbye for the last time. So it goes. The Camino Family ended. So it goes.<br /><br />But, I am a Santiago Pilgrim. I will not forget the conversation where Lisa strengthened my conviction in listening to my heart as Santiago had to do. I will choose to look back at the positive moments with the two, as Billy Pilgrim might have, and let those define this Camino. I will remember Lisa’s promise to me—in the name of Santiago (of Compostela)—to never let her heart settle for less than the best. I will remember Lida’s saying—“In the end everything will be okay; if it’s not okay, it’s not the end”—and apply it to the belief of the Tralfamadorians: I am the one to choose which moment I view last. If I live through a bad moment in the present, who is to stop me from time-traveling to a happier moment in the past—or in the future—so that the end of every moment is happy? <br /><br />I am a Santiago Pilgrim. Lisa, Lida—I miss you guys a lot. But know that our time together always was and always will be. Feel free to time-travel to it often.<br /><br />I am a Santiago Pilgrim. And I have been doing quite a bit of time-traveling lately, and I’m not sure that I have been listening to my heart of Santiago. Perhaps my dreams are beginning to send me in a direction that I didn’t think I was going. The Road, and the influence of these two books, has helped me to accept that perhaps I’ve been ignoring my calling. Maybe it’s time I listen.<br /><br />I am a Santiago Pilgrim.Matt Straushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04884914554503168346noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750240054337422489.post-2587458463597663172010-08-04T10:02:00.002-04:002010-08-04T10:04:08.446-04:00The High Tolerance<span style="font-style:italic;">3:55 PM, August 2, Pereje Municipal Albergue, Bed 12</span><br /><br />I have always felt that my tolerance for people with other cultures, backgrounds, and beliefs was high when compared with other Americans. However, I didn’t realize how much intolerance disturbs me.<br /><br />Yesterday, while walking, Dan and I discussed our plans for when we arrived in Santiago. We both planned on being part of the pilgrims’ mass at noon, and we both agreed that we would go and get our Compostela certificates by showing our stamps and claiming that we did this pilgrimage for religious reasons. <br /><br />I added, though, that I also wanted to visit the confessional, as I’ve been told there are confessionals in 12 or more languages every day. I’m not Catholic, nor do I ever plan to be any denomination of Christian; however, I recognize that forcing myself into a confessional at the emotional climax of my journey will make for a very interesting and revealing experience and could perhaps offer the emotional closure of my Road. I think it will also serve to help me better identify with my Catholic friends who—inexplicably to me—feel very emotional about the Church.<br /><br />Dan said he would never go into a confessional because it’s wrong. He says that he is Lutheran, and Lutherans do not do that ever. I challenged that this entire pilgrimage is “Catholic” to begin with, and that he will say he’s Catholic and religious to receive his Compostela, so what difference does it make to continue playing dress-up with the Catholic religion and learning more about it. Dan couldn’t agree and said it was something he would never do because it is not right and it’s an idiotic piece of the Catholic faith.<br /><br />Today, while walking, Dan said something insensitive about Allah, and I challenged, well it’s somewhat your god, too. He disagreed; he explained to me that the Jewish God and Allah are different than his God, and that he would never pray to my God (referring to the Jewish God). He went further, arguing that the Muslims of the world don’t accept either of our gods, and hate us for it. <br /><br />I explained, very intellectually, how the God is relatively the same God, how the Muslims study Abraham, Moses, and Jesus, how all three religions are essentially three branches from the same tree, and how Western society was just as much the original aggressor in the Middle Eastern and Western conflict and it’s not fair to say that the Islamic world hates us now because of our religions.<br /><br />Dan couldn’t agree. Dan couldn’t see the brotherhood among the three religions. Dan said he wouldn’t ever say a prayer to the Jewish God or to Allah, because they aren’t his God. <br /><br />It’s weird, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at Dan in the same way. I don’t want to blame him fully either, because I know that my tolerance stems from my upbringing and culture and education, and his intolerance must stem from the same. So perhaps this is a cultural thing, something that stems from being a Lutheran 19-year-old in Germany. It still gets to me though. I never really realized how much intolerance and this subtle form of racism bothers me. But, truly, it does.Matt Straushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04884914554503168346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750240054337422489.post-25826261062270213262010-08-04T10:02:00.001-04:002010-08-04T10:02:55.200-04:00The Fly<span style="font-style:italic;">3:10 PM, July 31, Foncebadon, Monte Irago Albergue, Attic, Bed 1</span><br /><br />Ryan stared at the ceiling, waiting. <br /><br />It wasn’t like her to wait for so long to call him after a fight. Sure, names had been called and feelings had been hurt; but this wasn’t as bad as it has been. To Ryan, the severity of this fight was almost comforting.<br /><br />The room was dark—had been for two hours now—except for the rectangle of white confirming the full moon and a rectangle of yellow light from the street. The yellow box splashed light onto the ceiling, forming a sandbox of sorts directly above Ryan’s head. It illuminated the wooden planks in the faux design, as well as a small spider’s web forming a triangle with the wall and ceiling a little bit to the left. <br /><br />The moonlight, though, crashed through the window and scattered over Ryan’s bed. On this particular night, the moonbeams were so strong that they comically washed out half of Ryan’s face while further darkening the other; the forceful beams revealed his hand that held the house phone while they concealed the hand that held his cell phone. <br /><br />Perhaps she’s hurt! Ryan rationalized. Maybe she got into a car accident when she was driving and crying! He flipped open his cell phone, creating one more rectangle of light in the room, and quickly thumbed the “4” for her speed dial number. But as soon as “Calling…” flashed across the screen, his thumb red-phoned the call, dropping the call with his hope. She would have called if she needed me.<br /><br />At that thought, a fly landed on his knee and started crawling in a circle. Ryan jerked his knee causing the fly to quickly circle the air before landing again on Ryan’s wrist. A flick by Ryan and the fly was once again lost to the darkness between the bed and the ceiling. Ryan ceased breathing, remaining perfectly still, trying to sense where the fly was moving. Ten seconds passed, and then another. Ryan relaxed his chest and resumed his breathing, and he saw the fly crawling across his now lowered chest. <br /><br />Ryan’s fury was unleashed on the fly. Legs kicking, phone-wielding arms swinging, torso bouncing—Ryan’s effort to rid himself of the tiny insect were reminiscent of an angry beetle stuck on his back, trying desperately to flip back over. A very, very angry beetle.<br /><br />Before long, frustration and exhaustion took over, and Ryan relaxed into his pillow to see that the fly was now walking an S-shape on the ceiling. <br /><br />It was then that a thought occurred to Ryan. What if, in his successful assault on the fly, he had accidentally dropped her call? He flipped open his cell phone to discover nothing—no missed calls—beyond the tropical fish quietly swimming and blowing bubbles across the screen. As he lifted his other arm to check the land line, a glint from the ceiling caught his eye.<br /><br />The fly, having taken off at the wrong angle, had careened into the sticky web which now vibrated quickly in the still air. As the pulse became damped, Ryan could see that the fly was trying desperately to escape. It pulled in one direction, moving the web only a fraction of an inch, and then it pulled in another direction, hoping for more success. It then cycled through every move it seemed to know, making a very, very angry buzzing sound in hopes of freeing itself. <br /><br />Before long, frustration and exhaustion took over, and the fly seemed to resign itself for the moment to being a prisoner of the web. It was then that the spider made herself visible. Scurrying from the darkness into the streetlight, the spider rushed across the ceiling onto her web and toward the fly. <br /><br />Ryan noted that the fly must have sensed its doom; the moment that the spider’s first leg made contact with the web, the fly uselessly buzzed and fluttered with increased vigor. No quicker had the spider reached the fly than the fly ceased sound and motion. Ryan could imagine what had happened in his head: the fly, belly up in the web with it’s wings stuck, stared as the spider ran up, raising her head and crashing two fangs deep into the fly. It was over quickly for the fly, Ryan reasoned. Perhaps that was a good thing.<br /><br />While the spider set about packaging and preparing her meal for a more proper dinnertime, Ryan checked his phone. It had already been two hours. He let his cell-phoned arm fall perpendicular to his body, so that his body would have looked symmetrical, had the moon chosen to light him properly. <br /><br />And Ryan stared at the ceiling, waiting.Matt Straushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04884914554503168346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750240054337422489.post-32412481830154276402010-07-29T11:20:00.002-04:002010-07-29T11:30:13.728-04:00The Photo Dump (Part 2)Here are some more photos! From Burgos to Leon, through the Meseta!<br /><br />And for those of you who complained about the lack of people-pictures, you'll be happier this time around.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/20594054@N03/sets/72157624609113396/">Here</a> is one set. <br /><br />Read the captions for a better idea of what's going on in each photo.Matt Straushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04884914554503168346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750240054337422489.post-39394950838662292302010-07-27T15:54:00.002-04:002010-07-27T15:57:55.778-04:00The Blisters2:23 PM, July 27, Mansilla de las Mulas, 20 km from Leon, Albergue Privado<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(This is a piece of short fiction I wrote this afternoon. It's unedited, but please give me feedback! It's expressive of the emotion of the moment, but none of what occurs is true. Further, I'm now back to feeling the family ties with Lida and Lisa as they are here as well, and we have sorted out our differences. Let's just say they weren't leaving me the last couple of days but instead chasing someone else...)</span><br /><br />Matt’s little pinky toe looked like it had been on the wrong side of a knife fight in an alley in Leon. Or, perhaps, the seeming destruction on the cratered-surface of the toe was a result of a violent arson attempt by the pinky that went miserably wrong. Matt grimaced, aware that his American doctors might say nothing short of “amputate it,” and Matt went to pull away the second piece of athletic tape.<br /><br />“You have no right to say that,” Lisa stammered, flustered. The accusation had made her pale complexion flood with color. “You know we care about you more than the others, Matt.”<br /><br />“Then why do you chase—“ Matt’s voice had an unnatural inflection on this last syllable, as he had just lanced a new blister on his ring toe, “—the others and leave me behind?” He watched as the fluid trickled around to the front of his toe, skipping and churning and babbling on the knuckles until it found a suitable canal to use to escape his foot. As Matt’s question hung on the air, a single droplet hung from the side of his foot at the end of a glistening trail. <br /><br />“We told them we would meet—“ Lida began.<br /><br />“But you told me the night before and didn’t keep that promise to me!” When Matt jerked forward to issue this interruption, the impulse carried down to his left foot and the last droplet made one additional dark spot on the blue sheets.<br /><br />A collective silence fell like a wool blanket over the three, soft and heavy.<br /><br />Matt pulled back the tape on his heel to expose the last blister, a behemoth plateau found in the tattoo garden, that lovely little bowl on the side of the heel where women get inked with daisies and roses. He brought the Swiss Army scissors to the ballooned skin and slowly cut a V into the base of the blister.<br /><br />Alas, the floodgates had opened. Fluid gushed from the broken dam, smearing across the base of Matt’s foot.<br /><br />And Matt broke the silence: “Maybe next time you tell a friend you’ll meet him, you’ll meet him on that night and also not abandon him on the next.”<br /><br />With that, Matt seized the tape and ointment, got to his feet, and hobbled down the corridor toward the garden, leaving in his wake a trail of small pools of nectar.Matt Straushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04884914554503168346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750240054337422489.post-27040619634263116072010-07-27T15:47:00.002-04:002010-07-27T15:54:43.268-04:00The Prayer9:53 PM, July 27, Mansilla de las Mulas, 20 km from Leon, Albergue Privado<br /><br />At this beautiful 16th Century house-turned-albergue yesterday, I became a part of a very cool prayer experience. No, I'm not talking about the Greek Orthodox mass I attended that was presented entirely in Italian (strange, interesting, and unintelligible); I'm talking about the small baskets in the stairwell. <br /><br />Halfway up an old wooden staircase was a table with seven small baskets marked with seven world languages. Upon asking what the baskets were, I was told that guests can leave a prayer on a small sheet of paper and that guests can also take someone else's prayer and deliver it to Santiago as though it was their own. <br /><br />From the English bin, I took out a prayer and I left one of my own.<br /><br />At this time I'm going to choose not to share my prayers with the world, however I do want to share the prayer I took:<br /><br />"I pray that I find my partner." <br /><br />This prayer is now in my pocket and will remain there until I arrive in Santiago wherein I will deliver the prayer at the cathedral.Matt Straushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04884914554503168346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750240054337422489.post-69215176818257202282010-07-26T09:12:00.002-04:002010-07-26T09:18:01.913-04:00The Range of Emotions10:02 pm, July 25, Terradilla de los Templarios, Jacques Albergue, Room 7<br /><br />The range of emotions I´ve felt in the last day has been pretty cool. <br /><br />Pride: I´m more than halfway done with the Camino! Less than 400 km to go! Less than 16 days to go!<br /><br />Joy: Dinner was excellent and the company was better: a Belgian girl who has been along each stage of the way (Lynn, 26) and an Australian who we saw for the first time (Therese, 60ish).<br /><br />Sadness: I found out that Dan hadn´t been completely honest when he disclosed his reasons for his time on the Camino. When he shared the whole truth, or enough about it that I could feel his pain, I felt so sad because I can only imagine the weight that he is carrying. I´m terribly hurt for him, but I hope he finds his strength.<br /><br />Anger: After not telling me which albergue to find them in yesterday, Lisa and Lida didn´t come to my albergue today even though I told them where I was going to check in since I was going faster. <br /><br />I hope to continue to feel such strong emotions and to feel their currents pull me.Matt Straushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04884914554503168346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750240054337422489.post-18365479615941338322010-07-24T14:47:00.000-04:002010-07-24T14:48:32.106-04:00The Thought ProcessThe same Cafe Bar Espana<br /><br />Imagine if time truly conformed to your emotional responses. That is, imagine a world in which the moment you get word of bad news, time stretches to a point of near standstill while you process and experience the emotions that the bad news elicits. Imagine a world in which the moment you feel an ecstatic moment of euphoria time dilates so as to allow you to feel the warmth for as long as it will last on its own before another emotion or thought interferes with the pure glee. Alternatively, in the same world, time would seem to contract and speed up through the moments where emotions are neutral or subdued. <br /><br />Perhaps this is how the Road is allowing me to process the past few years of my life. While walking an empty stretch of the Meseta, my mind will wander to a big event. With no additional stimuli to my brain, I’m able to clearly relive those moments in an unabridged way in my head. I can allow myself to feel the feelings all over again, but to take them slowly and understand why I felt and still feel each response that I had to every event. <br /><br />The Road is teaching me how to relax my mind to concentrate on one thing at a time and let everything else go for the moment. Instead of holding tightly the reins controlling the direction of my head, I let the tides of thought push me in their currents from one event to another. By refusing to force my thoughts to be linear or chronological in any way, I seem to connect events on an emotional level. The related thoughts in my head are actually related by what I felt, not by what happened or when—a surprising revelation for me. <br /><br />I hope that when I return from the Road to Santiago, I am still able to allow my mind to understand events on an emotional level—that I will find a way to block out the stresses and deadlines to enjoy reflective periods of time.Matt Straushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04884914554503168346noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750240054337422489.post-11874049465560409072010-07-24T14:45:00.001-04:002010-07-24T14:47:49.952-04:00The New Friend and Family Member8:47 PM, July 24, Carrion de los Condes, Palencia, At a table in the Cafe Bar Espana<br /><br />Since Logrono, my Camino Family and I had been staying in all of the same albergues as two Germans, a girl and a guy. Both were very young-looking—younger than me, even—but even though we always seemed to be in the same place, the getting-to-know-them phase was slow. <br /><br />In the town before Burgos, we discovered that, while we guessed they were either siblings or romantically entangled, they are just school friends and that the girl is very homesick and is leaving from Burgos to return home. The guy introduced himself as Dan, and seemed eager to hang out with us. He’s 19 and speaks very good English.<br /><br />Leaving Burgos, Lida went by bus because she had a fever, and after the first 9-kilometer stretch, Dan caught up to Lisa and I having breakfast. We walked the rest of the day together. His English is so good because he spent his freshman year of high school in America (great year to experience America, right?). <br /><br />He’s going to Santiago, and plans to get there on the 10th, a day after I plan to arrive. He also walks just as fast as I do, and we can pace with each other (at a speed of almost 6 km per hour! Wow!). While my girls are leaving on Wednesday from Leon—and, truly, they are irreplaceable on this journey and I will miss them badly—at least I will be able to continue on with Dan.<br /><br />Because Dan and I got into Carrion de los Condes so much earlier than Lisa and Lida, the girls must have checked into a different albergue than us (ours, by the way, is another convent run by nuns. It’s fascinating.). This is the first night in two weeks that I’m not staying with them and it’s sort of weird, but it’s okay. I miss them, but I know I will pass them on the Road tomorrow!Matt Straushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04884914554503168346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750240054337422489.post-84214211941139958732010-07-23T09:59:00.003-04:002010-07-23T10:05:18.470-04:00The Burgos RegionBurgos is over and I am in Palencia! The Road is now moving very fast, and my feet are healing very nicely. I can now walk very fast (almost 5 or 5.5 km per hour!), and I´m feeling better. <br /><br />Burgos was a beautiful city and the region before was nice, but there are really only two things worth sharing.<br /><br />First, the Pecaditos. Pecaditos is a chain of restaurants (we saw 4, ate at 2) across Burgos. For one euro, you can get any sandwich on their menu or a glass of wine or a beer. And their sandwiches are small french bread loaves with salmon and cream cheese (delicious), calamari, grilled peppers, spicy chicken, any sort of pork you can imagine (it looked okay, but I didn´t sample). Awesome concept, and an awesome hangout spot on the Camino.<br /><br />Second, the cathedral was beautiful. No pictures are allowed inside, but I will soon post pictures of the outside. So wonderful.<br /><br />La Meseta is not much of a desert in the traditional sense--rather it is just a very flat region where fields of grain seemingly stretch to the infinite horizons. It´s beautiful but desolate. And quite hot, when the wind isn´t blowing.<br /><br />Now on through more of the Meseta and through Palencia! (And soon, I´ll have more fiction--I promise!)Matt Straushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04884914554503168346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750240054337422489.post-19700369114724605482010-07-23T09:57:00.003-04:002010-07-23T09:59:07.861-04:00The Inventory: The AdditionOops I forgot something on The Inventory! Perhaps one of the more important things.<br /><br />I have two American Airlines red blankets with me (you know,the one´s that have the tags that read ¨Do not remove from aircraft.¨) They function as blankets by night and towels by day. Super important. I would have really had a problem without them.<br /><br />Thank you American Airlines! They know why I fly!Matt Straushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04884914554503168346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750240054337422489.post-57342336552109258442010-07-21T15:22:00.000-04:002010-07-21T15:23:32.975-04:00The InventoryAfter checking into a really new albergue here in Burgos, I panicked. Where the hell did I put my passport? I tore apart my backpack violently, until I found it in the last place I looked. In any case, with everything out of my backpack, and because of a question someone emailed me, I decided I would share my personal inventory with you! So here goes…<br /><br />• Backpack: Arched support system so that it doesn’t rest against my back, two front small pockets and one large pocket, with a separate section for a…<br />• Camelback Waterbottle: Sits in my backpack and the tube/mouth thingy comes out of a well-designed hole in the backpack to wrap around to sit by my neck for whenever I need water.<br />• Camera with back-up memory card and charger<br />• MacBook Laptop in Duke Laptop case (you know, the one that almost every Duke student has) and charger<br />• iPod Touch and charging cable<br />• Universal Converter: purchased really cheap at Target before I left<br />• Travel Size Everything: Toothbrush, Toothpaste, Hand Lotion, Body Wash (Old Spice Endurance Odor Blocking…which is necessary), Deodorant (Old Spice Endurance Odor Blocking…which is really necessary), Tissues, Antibacterial Hand Soap, Fusion Razor, Extra Razor Blade Cartridges, Laundry Detergent in Dry Sheet Form (super cool)<br />• Loreal SPF 50 Sunblock: Bought here in Spain at the price gouging price of 15.95 Euros! Did you know that I can sleep and eat for at least a day on that sort of money?<br />• Prescription Allergy Medication<br />• Wallet<br />• Passport (luckily)<br />• Pilgrim’s Passport, or La Credencial (del Peregrino)<br />• Tiny Swiss Army Knife: really it hasn’t served a real purpose beyond, well, blister care…knife to pop the blister, scissors to cut off the dead skin, tweezers to pull out little pieces of sock fabric that tend to get stuck, nail file to file away at the hardened dead skin on the old blisters, and a toothpick to…well, to be a toothpick? I bet this really isn’t what the Swiss Army intended soldiers to do with their knives. Also, this thing is in need of some SERIOUS sanitizing if it will ever serve another purpose in its life…<br />• Poncho: has been completely useless, so far…knock on wood (on that note, we discovered in Roncesvalle that while Holland, South Africa, the United States, Scotland, Ireland, France, and Germany all consider Friday the Thirteenth to be unlucky, Spain considers Tuesday the Thirteenth to be the unlucky day for the Thirteenth of any month to occur. Also, you must continually knock on wood on that Tuesday to be protected from the bad luck).<br />• Waterproof Laundry Bag: it’s not used for laundry but instead it keeps everything dry in my backpack in case water comes into my backpack (knock on wood). So inside of it is usually my computer, and…<br />• Legal pad and 8 pens<br />• American Way magazine, stolen from the flight to Paris (I still need to finish those Sudokus and that Crossword Puzzle…)<br />• The Alchemist: I’ve read it once already in the past week, but I’m going to read it again and then write about some of it…more to come on that front.<br />• Slaughterhouse Five: Could I really ever travel without one of my favorite books ever? No, I think if I ever traveled without it, a piece of my soul would die. So it goes.<br />• Three black medium Hanes Crew-Cut Shirts<br />• One pair of khaki cargo shorts (and, for those of you managers reading this, those are khaki-colored khaki shorts…)<br />• One pair of gray cotton drawstring shorts<br />• Four pairs of black Hanes medium socks, ankle-length<br />• One awesome pair of awesomely-new shoes: if they weren’t so awesomely-new when I started, I wouldn’t have had all these pretty blisters! Aren’t I so intelligent for not breaking them in ahead of time?<br />• Four pairs of Hanes Medium Boxer Briefs: because, admit it, you were curious if I was boxers or briefs.<br />• Band-aids and Athletic Tape: purchased at local farmacias for very cheap prices (40 assorted off-brand band-aids for 2 Euros? En serio? Es un robo!)<br /><br />And there you have it. The others estimate that it’s about the same number of total kilos that everyone else is carrying. Now if only I knew what the conversion was for a kilo…<br /><br />(Tomorrow we climb the plateau and enter La Meseta, and I’m excited for the serenity of the barren, desert section of this Road. Until next time!)Matt Straushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04884914554503168346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750240054337422489.post-50085454455122925092010-07-19T14:08:00.004-04:002010-07-19T15:17:39.333-04:00The Photo Dump (Part 1)I have uploaded the first batch of pictures to my Flickr account...granted it's also the first time I've ever used Flickr. The pictures are in reverse order, so start at the end? Sorry. I'll fix it when I have time...probably after I return. <br /><br />Check it out <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/20594054@N03/?saved=1">here.</a>Matt Straushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04884914554503168346noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750240054337422489.post-50596098627402194852010-07-19T09:08:00.002-04:002010-07-19T09:34:03.993-04:00The German, The Hungarian, and The French DiabloStill in the Cafe Monterrey bar in Belorado, 3:09 pm<br /><br />We met a German on the Road,<br />whose racism we did not goad,<br />She hated the Turks,<br />"ones without perks,"<br />And now we run from her load.<br /><br />There was this 19-year-old German girl that we met a couple of days back who is spending two more years in high school to try to get her IB test to pass (German permission to study in a college abroad). When we asked her why she wanted to study she says, "Well, I'm not racist but"--which is perhaps the worst way to start a sentence EVER--"I hate all the Turks that are in Germany. There are 87 hundred thousand people in Germany and 70 hundred thousand of them are Turks and the way they talk and--it just really bothers me, you know?" No, I don't know. When asked where she wanted to study, she responds, "I think Oxford would be nice." Please, Oxford, let this be a plea from the rational forward thinkers of the world--DON'T ACCEPT HER! My Camino Family and I now constantly tease each other that if we linger too long in one place, the "German girl"--also known as the "German racist"-- might catch up. It's been 3 days since we've seen her and that's quite enough.<br /><br />We met a man that's Hungarian,<br />who wasn't a bit a barbarian,<br />we asked his name,<br />it was all the same,<br />but we know that he's a proletarian.<br /><br />Two days ago, we were walking and talking about descent, genealogy, and ancestry. Unfortunately, I don't know much of mine, beyond knowing that I'm a mix of many different European breeds. What I did know, that I pointed out, is that my male line comes from Hungary. That night, in the hostel, we met a man from Hungary (he slept in the bed adjacent to Lisa and below mine) but none of us caught his name. As I was falling asleep, I kept thinking, perhaps he is related to me. Perhaps, by some sprawling family tree, we are cousins of sort. I'll never know (and the odds are so slim anyway), but I've now vowed that I am going to document the family tree as it stands now that I know about, and pass it on to my children. It won't start with Adam and Eve, but it's a start.<br /><br />We met a caminante from France,<br />who didn't even merit a glance,<br />his hair was funny,<br />his nose was runny,<br />and I think he did the devil dance. <br /><br />Toward the beginning of the Road, Lida, Lisa and I met a man from France whose shape might best be described as a muffin. His head, by contrast, was spherical, with a halo of gray hair surrounding a massive bald spot. On night three, after Lida complained about her feet hurting, he offered her a foot massage. Perhaps French, perhaps hopeful. All the same, he was someone to giggle about. But then, on the fourth day, we came to a stretch where there were arrows pointing the three of us in both directions at once. How could someone do this--confuse a person on the Road with two sets of arrows? My imagined response? The devil--El Diablo--must have done it to trick us. But, for whatever reason--granted it was 7:30 am--into my head popped an image of this french muffin man in a bright red spandex full body suit wearing devil horns on his head prancing around the Camino painting trick arrows and making false signs. I shared this creative image with the girls and we all shared a good laugh. It's now the first image each of us has whenever any of us chooses to reference "El Diablo." It's perfect.<br /><br />I knew an old cad named Matt,<br />whose feet went pat pat pat,<br />his limericks were bad,<br />the attempts were just sad,<br />so no more tries at that!Matt Straushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04884914554503168346noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750240054337422489.post-83517429048260405732010-07-19T08:15:00.002-04:002010-07-19T09:08:32.747-04:00The Road to Belorado(Get it? The Road to El Dorado?...Even if you don't we've been singing about it all morning with our made up songs....we even put it to the tune of the Eagles' "Desperado" at one point...)<br /><br />2:17 PM, July 19, Cafe Monterrey bar in Belorado, booth near the cigarette machine<br /><br />The Road through the province of La Rioja passed quickly and I have already arrived in the province of Burgos, a province within the state of Castille and Leon, although we will not reach the large city of Burgos until Wednesday. The road has been easy, with fewer steep climbs and more rolling plains--it almost makes me nostalgic for the "amber waves of grain" which paint the countryside of the Great Plains.<br /><br />While it has now only been 9 days (yes, that's right, only 9 days on the Road), it has felt like an eternity; the loneliness which I knew last summer had somehow found its way into my backpack to be carried as a heavy load along the Road. <br /><br />The effects of the loneliness started to show two days ago. My appetite all but disappeared, my mood could not be lifted, I lost my creative flow and had no passion for writing, and I slept at every chance I got. And two nights ago, I questioned why it was that loneliness occurred the way it did. I think I have some sort of explanation.<br /><br />Imagine that there is a thermometer type gauge that has a liquid that rises and falls where increased liquid means more loneliness. There is some threshold (let's call it "boiling") where I do not function beyond. It is the boiling point where I do not want to do any work, where I do not want to eat, where I only want to sleep to escape. School can get awfully lonely; however, the intense amounts of work and commitments I have from Undergraduate Conduct Board, to Judiciary, to Basketball, to Chi Psi, to academics itself distract me and slow the filling of the gauge. And, best of all, close dinners with the friends who I love and even a really warm hug from a friend can actually move the gauge closer to absolute zero. <br /><br />Well after a week with no voice contact with any loved one--and very little email--I was flirting with the boiling point, and I saw my ambition and will to move begin to evaporate.<br /><br />Last night, we chose to stay in an albergue run by a group of nuns. Most of our fellow walkers were at the new, state-of-the-art "hotel-like" (said Boris, the pantalones German) hostel, but we liked the rustic feel of the 16th century building, the sister that quietly ushered us in, and the very old doors through which we passed. Lida and I sat in the garden in the center of the complex. Every so often, a nun would rush by a window just before I could get a good look. After a few minutes of enjoying the peaceful quiet, Lida asked me what was wrong.<br /><br />We talked for hours, and it was wonderful. We're all a little bit homesick, and we're all a little bit lonely, but we can do this. And I believe her. We <span style="font-style:italic;">can</span> do this. <span style="font-style:italic;">I</span> can do this. <br /><br />Today I was much happier. I think Lida and Lisa have finally ascended to the point where they can be considered very close friends--close enough that a hug warms me to the core and even their silent presences on the Road to my right and left can make me feel strong. <br /><br />But on this note, I think I'm beginning to realize that distance is something that is learned and not inherently felt. The love which I am so lucky to be surrounded by at school and at home is of the same strength no matter where I am in the world. It is only that I perceive it to be further away when I'm here than when I'm, say, in Santa Fe. And this makes me happy. If loneliness is only a perception, than it is quite easy to overcome, no?<br /><br />Today my appetite was back (in full strength) and I'm going to sit down with my pen and paper in a little while because I think my will to write has floated back to me on the cloud that carries my muse. And my temperature? Luke warm, if not room temperature.Matt Straushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04884914554503168346noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750240054337422489.post-61425476759587192192010-07-18T08:34:00.001-04:002010-07-18T08:35:46.539-04:00The HamburgerI just ordered my first hamburger in Spain. Trust me, don´t order a hamburger in Spain.<br /><br />That´s all.Matt Straushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04884914554503168346noreply@blogger.com0