Off to France, June 6th/7th, 2023
Here I go. For days now my feelings have been swinging between "I want to leave immediately" and "I don't want to leave at all." For some reason it feels like I am abandoning my friends and family, just going away and never coming back. It's so strange. I only got back the day before yesterday from a three-day European tour of Budapest, Athens, and Glasgow, and then yesterday I just sat around doing nothing. I cried a lot - could it be the excitement? As a flight attendant though I am used to being away all the time, and I am experienced with adventures, so what am I afraid of? And is it even fear or am I just uncertain, because this time I have absolutely no idea what to expect in the next six weeks?
When I finally shoulder my rucksack on the morning of June 6th and close the door behind me, my legs feel like jelly. My hands are soaking wet, and I feel nauseous as I sit on the bus to the train station. I feel like everyone is staring at me, and I wonder how many people actually notice the scallop shell on my rucksack and know what it is all about. To be honest, I didn't know either until recently: the shell is a symbol of pilgrims on the Way of St. James to Santiago de Compostela, where the tomb of St. James is located, the patron saint of pilgrims. I thought to myself, even though I am not on a pilgrimage in the religious sense, maybe I should still tie one of these shells to my backpack. And because my husband David never throws anything away, he still had a few scallop shells left over from his last scallop meal decades ago, one of which he lovingly sacrificed for me.
My journey to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port will hopefully proceed as follows:
I have now arrived at Herne train station. From here I am taking the train to Cologne and then the Thalys to Paris-Nord. Once I get there, I will be walking to Montparnasse, which is on the other side of the river Seine Here I have booked a bed in a 4-bed hostel room. Pitching my tent in the middle of Paris seems rather unrealistic to me.
Morgen fahre ich dann weiter nach Bayonne und schließlich nach Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, wo ich am frühen Nachmittag ankommen sollte.
Paris-North
The whole journey is rather uneventful, as neither I miss my train, nor is there a public transport strike in Paris, contrary to my assumption. Arriving at Paris-North station, I wander somewhat aimlessly around the building, unable to find the restroom. When I finally locate it, I remember that I don't have any small change, as it would weigh too much. My bladder is pressing, and I am about to hold out my floppy hat to beg for a small donation when I spot a card reader next to the coin slot. Amazing, I think, never before I had paid for my needs with a credit card. And then there I am, standing in the small cubicle with my bulky rucksack on, turning left and right, trying to squat down and drop my trousers. I'm still quite clumsy with the technique as the rucksack feels rather heavy now, and I wonder once again whether I should take it off or keep it on for comfort while doing my business. It is as if I suddenly weigh ten kilograms more, hopefully I will get used to it quickly. In the end I kept it on my back, in case anyone is interested, but it was an act of balance.
Now I have an eight-kilometres walk to my hostel in Montparnasse ahead of me. I walk past Notre Dame along Rue Saint-Martin, heading south. In places the scallop shell symbol is embedded in the pavement, and I realise I am already on part of the Camino de Santiago. Along this busy main road, however, it is awful. It is dirty, crowded and noisy, and I am constantly accompanied by police and ambulance sirens. Plus it is incredibly hot! I have far too little water and buy a new bottle in a small shop. After I pay, the shopkeeper asks if he should also refill my empty bottle which I gladly accept, and promptly my rucksack weighs two kilos more.
Arriving at my hostel, I get my first taste of the pilgrim's life. I am assigned the top bunk in a small room located in a sort of courtyard. This room has a certain cosiness to it though as each bed has a curtain for some privacy. It reminds me a bit of the crew bunks on our airplanes.
Dawn awakens the blackbird. Its song accompanies me through the empty streets of Paris Montparnasse on my way to the train station. The air is cool and somehow purified. In the distance, I glimpse the Eiffel Tower - how exciting! I am looking forward to the day ahead and everything that is yet to come. There is something special about simply living in the moment and not having to worry about anything, except perhaps figuring out how to get to the right platform. Weird, I must have entered the station through a side entrance, there is not a soul in sight, no train, no café. Nothing but empty tracks, and I can't make sense of the display showing the departure times either. I wander in every direction until, at the end of a tunnel, I see people and warm light. And indeed, everything turns out alright at the end of the tunnel. I soon get all the information I need and can enjoy a nice Café au lait"Nothing can go wrong now," I think and promptly board the wrong train. Luckily, since my seat number doesn't exist here, I realise my mistake in time. A fellow passenger explains that my train is the one directly behind this one on the same tracks. Could it get any more confusing?
Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port
Bayonne. From here it's just a short train ride to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. I have a layover of about an hour, so I am waiting outside in the sun. As I stand there wondering where I might find something to eat, a cheerful-looking, grey-bearded man wearing a rucksack comes out of the station and stops abruptly when he sees me.
»Do you speak English?« he asks with a broad grin, slowly approaching me. The friendly pilgrim's name is Andrew, and he is from Australia. We hit it off immediately and are delighted to have made our first Camino acquaintance and not have to wait for the train alone. Like little children with their new toys, we show each other our gear, especially everything we think will prove particularly useful. For example, Andrew carries a tennis ball with him, which he uses to massage the soles of his feet at the end of a hard day's hiking. In return, I proudly present my collapsible washbasin and my 20-gram mini-stove. We talk almost non-stop, so much so that a female pilgrim next to us assumes we have been friends for a long time and are walking the camino together. And yes, it almost feels that way.
In Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port we go directly to the pilgrim office. This is where pilgrims receive their Credential, the pilgrim's passport, in which they ideally collect stamps daily from now on in order to prove at the end that they have actually walked the camino. However, only the last one hundred kilometres are truly important in order to receive their certificate in Santiago at the end of the pilgrimage, the Compostela at the end of the pilgrimage in Santiago.
For those who would like to read more about it, klick here .
I already have my pilgrim's passport and am registered as well. Nevertheless, I would like to get my first stamp and some information here.
Tonight I won't be camping, instead I am treating myself to another hostel. There is simply nowhere here where I could discreetly pitch my tent. Before checking in though, I am going to have a couple of beers with Andrew. We get along really well. We chat about this and that, including how dependent he feels in every way and how he hopes that will change on the Camino de Santiago. Making it from Australia to France on his own is already a huge achievement for him. He also wants to stop drinking so much. Loneliness, he says.
I really like Andrews Australian accent and enjoy listening to him. Instead of »yes« he always says »yeeeh«, sometimes even »yeeeeeeeeh«, although I think that is probably more of an Andrew thing than a typical Australian one.
In the hostel, I have a four-bed room to myself which I find very pleasant. Less pleasant, however, is the lack of bed sheets. The pillow is so thick and hard that I am using my garment bag as a pillow instead. It will be my pillow anyway in the days to come when I sleep in my tent, so this is a first test. The bathroom is very dirty, and everything generally looks rather dingy.
I feel a bit lonely as I wander through the streets of Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, looking for a nice place to have dinner. But then I actually run into Andrew, who is also looking for a restaurant. As we continue walking together, we meet a Japanese woman who also travels alone, and suddenly there are three of us. The young woman's name is Aki, and she lives in Canada. We make a great trio and enjoy a pleasant evening together.
Andrew is unintentionally funny. At one point he says he is 51 years old but then mentions his birth year, 1970. I hesitate because that is also my birth year, and I am definitely not 51 anymore.
»Say, Andrew, don't you think you are 52?« I ask. That look, while his mind is working and then the realisation hits him.
»Oh yeeeeeeeeh, crikey! I keep thinking I am 51, but that is not true at all«, he confesses, surprised and visibly shocked, whereupon he has to have another drink.
