Disorientation

You Can Carry It, or You Can Move Forward

“Wadda you want! Wadda you want! Wadda you want?

I’m shouting into the darkness. Something—I don’t know what—is lying next to me in my bed. In my half-awake-half asleep brain fog I am trying to reconcile this discovery, and suddenly it’s gone.

Oh my God. What was that? I wonder. Whatever it is/was, it’s gone now.

I am sad and exhausted and I don’t have the energy to dissect my weird dreams. Back to sleep I go and I am startled awake in the darkness. There is something/someone in my bed. Again. 

Okay, This time I do cry out, “What do you want! What do you want?” 

At 57, this isn’t my first encounter with something I can’t explain.

But this feels different.

This feels like me coming apart at the seams. I wish I had reacted more calmly. If only I had been more deliberate in my greeting instead of shouting at the poor thing. I sabotaged a beautiful moment with my outburst and ignorance. 

Who was this? I hope it was a Spanish ancestor encouraging me. Or a lonely spirit that sees me as an accepting host.

Anyway, now it is gone and I am alone. Some things remain the same.

My husband is safely ensconced in an American condominium, with his mother. And I get to entertain ghosts in my Pamplona hotel room. I remind myself to be grateful for this time and to use it for reflection.

I speak with him frequently, via Google Hangouts. We are kind to each other, but to me there is tension. This could be my insecurities, my codependency, or my people pleasing traits. Why do I feel responsible for his moods? The man needs help and I am thousands of miles away eating lamb stew and drinking red wine and delighting in the birds strolling the grounds of the local park. Brain fog persists, but I am less rattled.

This weekend is a special holiday in Spain, Hispanic day. Since it is a long weekend Spanish pilgrims are taking the opportunity to walk portions of the Camino over the holiday weekend. The added pilgrims makes booking rooms a challenge. My foiled attempt to stay in Roncesvalles is a good example.

It was afternoon when I arrived in Pamplona. Taking a cab from Eugi was not easy. My journey required many steps. Including a shared taxi. Pamplona is a very pretty city with lots of open space, lovely parks and a pedestrian Old City.

Pamplona feels older than Cork—wider, more open, less tangled. A Roman city instead of a monastic one. It breathes differently.

While walking through the cobblestone pedestrian roads, I see the Cathedral Santa Maria la Real. A five hundred year old church built upon the ruins of an ancient Roman temple. Here I can get a stamp for my Pilgrim's Passport. I am required to collect stamps in order to be awarded the Compostela. A certificate that is the official record of my pilgrimage. Once in Santiago I will need to present my pilgrim’s passport containing the stamps that I'll collect along the trail. It is my responsibility to collect the stamps as evidence of my journey.

Thankfully, at this lovely church I can acquire my second stamp. My first stamp was received in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, two days ago. One day ago, neither in Roncesvalles or Eugi did I remember to get my passport stamped. Thus I do not have an official record of my first day on the trail. I have got to be more conscientious about collecting these stamps.

Later, after I've checked into my room I wander through Pamplona's old city, narrow streets flanked by tall stone buildings, seeking an open cafe. Even though I am supposed to meet my new Irish girlfriends for dinner, I am seeking a snack to hold me until this evening. My timing is not good. It is Siesta, a sacred period in the spanish day. The part of the day when business stops for a few hours. 

Finding an open dining establishment with outdoor seating will be difficult. Many times while living in Texas I've wished for a siesta, a respite from the beastly heat and abundant sunshine. In my opinion, this is a very civilized tradition. It can however make conducting business awkward.

While strolling the streets, I notice Camino trail markers that are embedded in the stones that form the road. As I am seeking food, it turns out that I am also walking along the Camino trail. A phrase often spoken among the pilgrims is, “The Camino provides''. I wonder, is it true? Will the Camino provide a solution to my restaurant dilemma? We shall see, I think to myself as I continue to follow the trail markers. I am looking for an outdoor cafe. And praise God, there it is. The trail has led me to an outdoor dining establishment serving food during this sacred time. As I take a seat at a vacant table, I say to the waiter “Vino tinto por favor”. It is true, the Camino provides!

While dining, I continue to obsess about my suitcase and getting it to Santiago. This is a frustrating predicament. I am tempted to toss the suitcase and all its contents into the trash. I ditched my sleeping bag and trekking poles in Eugi. “I won't be needing these” I think. Now I wonder if I need any of the other items in my suitcase: two pairs of jeans, a silk dress and some designer shoes? 

I ran my hand over the stack of academic papers taking up an entire corner of my suitcase. They were dense with theorems and research—the seeds of a publication I thought would define my next chapter. In a classroom, they represent the pinnacle of thought; here, they are just dead weight, additional grams pulling at my shoulders. The math doesn't add up anymore; the energy required to carry the past is exceeding my current output. 

I've stopped caring about my life before today.

It’s all starting to feel like weight I can’t afford to carry.

And then there are the shoes. An indulgence, purchased for a version of me that walks on polished marble and attends dinner parties in a down-sized, sophisticated European life. They are beautiful, impractical sculptures of leather and ego. Sitting on the floor of a Pamplona hotel room, dusty and exhausted, they look like artifacts from a different century. They were meant for a woman who wasn't currently covered in the dirt of the Pyrenees.

The Paq Mochila office is closed on Saturday so any arrangements regarding my suitcase will have to wait until Monday. Via their online interface, I have paid the fees to have my big suitcase transported and stored. My plan is to deliver it to the Paq Mochila office before departing on the trail for my next destination. I would like to get an early start Monday morning, but their office does not open until nine. I guess I will be adjusting my departure time on Monday morning.

At 7 o’clock I receive an email from Niamb stating that she and her entourage have arrived in Pamplona. Dinner is at eight. Oh my! Eight o’clock? That seems late. I am already exhausted. I want to see them. I want to be that version of myself—the one who can sit at a table at eight o’clock and laugh.

But tonight, I can’t.

Tonight, I sleep.

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