Drenched in Determination: A Soggy Start to the Camino

So there we were, standing across from our designated rendezvous point near the town church, ready to meet our host, Jean Leon. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m not exactly fluent in French. Sure, I took a couple of years of it in high school, but let’s just say my grasp of the language was about as shaky as a Jenga tower after a few rounds of tequila shots.

But hey, I figured I could fake it ’til I made it, right? So I mustered up all the French I could remember and boldly proclaimed, “Jean Leon?” And what do I get in return? A cheerful “Bonjour David.” And that, my friends, was the last English word to grace our conversation.

Flashback to Mrs. Kaufman’s high school French class, where my claim to fame was perfecting the art of “Je ne sais pas” – or “I don’t know” for those of you playing along at home. It got to the point where Mrs. Kaufman, bless her heart, practically begged me to say it in French just to mix things up a bit. So from that day forward, I became the king of “Je ne sais pas,” speaking those three little words with a precision that would make Pepe Le Pew jealous.

Oh, the irony. Here I am, face-to-face with Jean Leon, desperately wishing I’d paid more attention in French class instead of perfecting my “I don’t know” routine. But hey, at least I can say I nailed the accent, right? So here’s to you, Mrs. Kaufman – sorry for being a terrible student, but hey, at least I can butcher French with the best of them.

            But wait, what about the wonders of modern technology and the universal language of pointing.  With Google Translate as our wingman and a lot of strategic gesturing, we managed to navigate our way through the intricacies of Jean Leon’s flat. And let me tell you, it was like a game of charades on steroids – but hey, who needs words when you’ve got finger guns and interpretive dance moves, am I right?

After bidding Jean Leon a heartfelt “adieu,” we settled into our temporary digs and decided to hit the town. And let me tell you, Saint Jean Pied de Port was calling our names like a siren song, luring us into its cobblestone streets and charming alleyways.

So off we went, ready to explore this picturesque little slice of French paradise. Who needs a map when you’ve got a sense of adventure and a healthy dose of curiosity? We wandered through the town, soaking in the sights and sounds, and reveling in the sheer joy of discovery.

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Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port is really one of the crown jewels of our Camino adventure, nestled snugly in the Pyrénées-Atlantiques department of southwestern France. Picture this: cobblestone streets winding through medieval architecture, traditional Basque houses standing tall against the backdrop of the Pyrenees – it’s like stepping into a fairy tale, with a side of history and culture thrown in for good measure.

Now, I’m not one to throw around compliments lightly, but Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port? It’s the most picturesque town we encountered on our journey – and trust me, we encountered quite a few. I wouldn’t be surprised if some Disney imagineer took a little field trip here for inspiration. I mean, with its well-preserved medieval architecture and stunning views from the Citadel, it’s a storyboard artist’s dream come true.

As we strolled into town, we were greeted by the sight of the Notre-Dame du Bout du Pont – a historic landmark that welcomed pilgrims with open arms (and probably a few sore feet). And let me tell you, those cobblestone streets? They weren’t messing around. It was like trying to climb Mount Everest in flip-flops – only steeper.

But hey, we’re not ones to back down from a challenge. So we huffed and puffed our way up that hill, past quaint shops and cozy restaurants, until we finally reached our destination: the Pilgrim Information Office. And let me tell you, it was like finding an oasis in the desert – a beacon of hope in a sea of cobblestone-induced exhaustion.

            So, picture this: you stroll into the Pilgrim Information Office, feeling all official and ready to kickstart your Camino adventure. And what’s the first thing they hand you? Not some boring old visa stamp for your regular passport – oh no. They hand you the golden ticket of pilgrimage perks: the Camino passport.

Now, don’t get me wrong, your trusty old home country passport is essential for crossing borders and such, but when it comes to scoring a bed at a cozy hostel or earning those bragging rights with a Compostela certificate, it’s all about the Camino passport.

And let me tell you, that Compostela isn’t just some piece of paper – it’s a badge of honor, a testament to your 500-mile trek across the Spanish countryside. Sorry, Pacific Crest Trail, but you ain’t the only one handing out certificates for completing a grueling hike. But here’s the kicker: to earn that coveted Compostela, you’ve gotta put in the legwork – specifically, the last 100 kilometers before hitting Santiago de Compostela.

So how do you prove your pilgrimage prowess? With stamps, my friend – glorious, inked stamps collected along the way like badges of honor. It’s a tradition that’s been around for centuries, starting with souvenir pins and evolving into the paper passport book we use today.

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Each stamp tells a story – some simple, some elaborate, but all proof that you’ve been there, done that, and got the stamp to prove it. And where do you get these magical stamps? Well, pretty much everywhere – coffee shops, restaurants, even the cozy little inns where you rest your weary bones after a long day on the trail.

But here’s the best part: once you’ve conquered the Camino and reached Santiago de Compostela, it’s time to cash in those stamps for some serious bragging rights. You whip out your trusty passport book, filled to the brim with inked memories, and present it as proof of your epic journey. 

And just like that, you’re handed your Compostela – the ultimate souvenir of your 500-mile trek across Spain. So as you collect those stamps along the way, remember – each one is a reminder of the incredible adventure you’re on, and the memories you’ll cherish for a lifetime.

So, there we were, standing in the Pilgrim Information Office, feeling like wide-eyed rookies about to embark on the adventure of a lifetime. And let me tell you, this place was like a bustling hub of pilgrimage knowledge, with volunteers stationed at desks labeled in all sorts of languages.

Naturally, we made a beeline for the English desk – because let’s face it, my high school French was about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. And who do we find there? A friendly dude who looked like he was born to guide clueless pilgrims like us. He handed us our Camino passports, maps, and even threw in some elevation charts for good measure. Talk about service!

But here’s where it gets real interesting – he starts dishing out some insider tips, like a seasoned pro. He points out this sketchy spot on the trail, warns us about the impending rain, and kindly suggests we take a detour to avoid a soggy disaster. And as if that wasn’t enough, he drops a gem of knowledge: there’s a shop where you can offload your heavy packs and have them magically transported to your next stop for a few bucks. Genius, right?

Now, our original plan was to be hardcore and lug our packs every step of the way – because who needs biceps when you’ve got a 16-18 pound backpack to haul around, am I right? But knowing we had the option to lighten our load on those brutal 22-mile days? Let’s just say, it was like discovering a secret stash of energy bars on the trail.

So armed with our passports, maps, and newfound knowledge, we set off to explore more of the town.

We left the Pilgrim office exiting to the left and continued up the steep hill.  Ah, the joys of climbing steep hills – it’s like a built-in workout with a side of scenic views. So there we were, huffing and puffing our way up the incline, feeling like we were auditioning for a fitness infomercial. But let me tell you, reaching the summit was worth every step.

At the top of the road, we stumbled upon the majestic La Citadelle de Saint Jean Pied de Port, standing tall like a medieval guardian overlooking the town below. This fortress, dating back to the early 1600s, was like a time machine transporting us back to an era of knights, castles, and epic battles. And talk about a room with a view – the hilltop offered us a panoramic glimpse of the city sprawled out beneath us, like a miniature kingdom awaiting exploration.

But beyond its picturesque charm, La Citadelle served as a reminder of the strategic importance of fortifications along the Camino route. I mean, sure, we might grumble about traffic jams and noisy neighbors, but imagine having to fend off pesky attacks from neighboring empires on the regular. Suddenly, those occasional annoyances don’t seem so bad, do they?

After exploring the area, we made our way back towards our flat and stopped into a nearby pizzeria, to have dinner.  So there we were, enjoying a slice of cheesy goodness at Pizza K, feeling like we’d found our own little slice of heaven. But little did we know, our dining experience was about to get a sprinkle of serendipity.

As we savored the last crumbs of our pizzas, in walked two fellow adventurers, chatting away in English like they owned the joint. With curiosity piqued, we couldn’t resist striking up a conversation. Turns out, they were fellow pilgrims on the Camino, just like us! Talk about a small world – or maybe just a really popular trail.

Meet Kirsty from Zimbabwe, radiating with a proper English accent and a playful spirit that could rival a mischievous sprite. And then there was Andrea from Canada, exuding warmth and hospitality like a cozy fireplace on a chilly night. We chatted and laughed for a good fifteen minutes, swapping tales of travel and trading tips for the road ahead.

Little did we know, this chance encounter would blossom into a friendship that would accompany us throughout our journey. Ah, the beauty of unexpected connections on the winding road of life.

            Back at our cozy flat, it was time to prepare for the first leg of our adventure. Packs were meticulously checked and ponchos were given a once-over, all in anticipation of what the weather had in store for us. And wouldn’t you know it, the forecast was about as cheerful as a soggy sandwich – rain, rain, and more rain.  Did I mention rain.

            Now, Suzy wasn’t exactly thrilled about the prospect of starting our 500-mile journey with a good old-fashioned soaking. And who could blame her? But being the eternal optimist that I am, she’s typically more optimistic than me.  I tried to offer a glimmer of hope amidst the storm clouds.

            “Dear” I said with all the conviction of a weatherman who’s definitely not just guessing, “maybe the forecast isn’t as bad as it seems. Maybe it’s just a passing shower or two, you know, a light mist to keep us refreshed on our epic hike.”

Ah, the power of positive thinking – or maybe just wishful thinking. But hey, when life gives you rain, you bust out the ponchos and dance through the downpour like you’re in a music video. Or at least that’s the plan.

So we wake the next morning and what’s the first thing we see when we peek out from under the covers? Rain. Yup, rain with a side of more rain, just in case we weren’t wet enough already.

            It’s officially the 11th of May, our chosen day of reckoning – I mean, our official start date on this grand adventure. The temperature? A balmy 48 degrees Fahrenheit, and the sky? A continuous stream of that wet stuff that makes you question all your life choices.

            So there we were, suited up in our trusty ponchos like walking, talking raindrops, ready to brave the elements. Eight minutes of soggy trekking later, we found ourselves at the crossroads by Notre-Dame du Bout du Ponte, faced with a decision that would shape the rest of our day: do we schlep our backpacks all the way to Roncesvalles, or do we leave it to the professionals and have them magically transported?

            Now, before you go thinking we’re softies, consider this: that hill looked steeper than a politician’s climb to integrity. Everest-sized? Maybe not, but close enough. And let’s not forget, we had a whopping 16 miles of uphill slog ahead of us. So, in a stroke of what we thought was brilliance, we decided to shoulder the load ourselves, figuring we needed to conserve our energy for the literal uphill battle that awaited.

They say the first day on the Camino is the toughest, and let me tell you, they weren’t kidding. It’s like the universe decided to throw everything it had at us – wind, rain, sleet, cold – you name it, we got it. And let me tell you, it wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. Well, I mean, technically it was a walk, just not the kind you’d want to write home about.

            As we trudged further and further up those misty mountains, the rain showed no signs of mercy. It was like Mother Nature had a vendetta against us, throwing every type of rain imaginable our way. I found myself channeling my inner Forest Gump, you know, that scene where he’s waxing poetic about the rain in Vietnam? Yeah, that one about the different types of rain. 

            I mean, seriously, it was like a rain buffet out there. I half expected to see shrimp falling from the sky next. But alas, it was just us, battling the elements like a couple of soggy warriors on a quest for… well, I’m not entirely sure what we were questing for at that point, but let’s just say survival seemed like a pretty noble goal.

            Hiking in that cold, wind-whipped, rain-soaked landscape was like starring in our very own nature-themed action flick. The wind howled like some melodramatic villain, hell-bent on making our lives miserable. And the rain and sleet? They were like the special effects crew, working overtime to turn everything into a wet and wild wonderland.

As we trudged along that trail, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we’d somehow stumbled onto the set of some emo band’s music video, or maybe one of those ethereal Enya productions. The scenery was so ridiculously dramatic, with every tree, rock, and blade of grass glistening in the rain like extras in a big-budget Hollywood blockbuster. I half expected violins to start playing in the background, adding to the whole cinematic vibe of our soggy adventure.

At the summit pass, we were met with views so enigmatic, they could give an illusionist a run for his money. The clouds and mist draped themselves over the mountains like a mystical shroud, playing tricks on our eyes as they revealed and concealed the landscape in equal measure.

I swear, at one point, I looked ahead and caught a glimpse of Roncesvalles, just about 4-5 miles away, only to watch it vanish into thin air moments later. It was like Mother Nature herself was playing hide and seek with us, teasing us with glimpses of our destination before whisking it away again in a veil of mist and mystery.

Descending the trail was no less of an adventure. I felt like Mario navigating through Donkey Kong, dodging raindrops and sleet like obstacles thrown by an 8-bit villain. With every step, there was a new challenge to overcome, but oh, the views! They were the ultimate reward.

Despite the aching muscles and damp clothes, the landscape was so breathtaking that I momentarily forgot all about the discomfort. It was as if nature herself had crafted a masterpiece, and we were lucky enough to witness it unfold with every step down the trail.

Our hike through the cold, rain, and wind was undoubtedly a test of our sense of humor, but the breathtaking landscapes along the way made every soggy step more than worthwhile. I would wholeheartedly encourage anyone to embark on a similar adventure, to laugh at the absurdity of it all, and to take a moment to truly appreciate the beauty of the scenery. After all, even Mother Nature herself has a sense of humor.

As our first day on the Camino drew to a close, we found ourselves at the Roncesvalles Pilgrims’ Hostel, a sanctuary built around the 12th century by the Bishop of Pamplona, at the behest of King Alfonso. Its purpose? To provide weary pilgrims with a place to rest their heads after traversing the challenging pass from France into Spain.