The airport in Biarritz was small, and in no time my two backpacks came sliding onto the baggage claim carousel. I put them both in a trolley and went outside, where I hired a taxi driver to take me to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, 45 minutes away, where I would begin the Camino.
I was immediately taken by how cold it was.
“C’est froid,” I said, shivering, to the taxi driver as he placed my bags in the trunk of his car. He immediately agreed and then slid into a tirade on how nasty the weather was that lasted until we arrived at our destination. Turning around the bend of the curved highway, we descended into a charming medieval-looking town backed up against a mountain range. He pulled over.
“C’est Saint-Jean,” he said, turning around to show me. “In which hotel are you staying?”
I took out my itinerary and said the Central Hotel. He looked left and right, and then left again in search of it. I searched right alongside him. Neither of us had any luck.
The town wasn’t that big, so we strained once more, looking both ways to see where it might be. Finally he suggested that I get out with my bags and simply ask around, as it would be easy enough to find, and he had to get going.
I wasn’t exactly happy that he couldn’t help me find the hotel, but I knew this was the end of the line for me, and I had to get walking anyway, so I agreed. He jumped out and ran to the back of the car to open the trunk and then soundly plopped my two bags on the ground and asked for 50 euros. The minute he did, I immediately regretted bringing this much stuff and wondered if I could simply walk away from one of the bags and pretend it wasn’t mine, as opposed to having to drag both along in search of the hotel.
As he drove off I felt a wave of anxiety. Now what?
Slowly I picked up one bag and thrust it on my back, not having a clue as to how I would ever be able to drag a second one along at the same time. When I turned around to arrange the backpack straps, I found myself looking directly at a sign no more than 20 feet away that said “Hotel Central.”
I nearly squealed with delight. I immediately ran to the front door of the hotel with the heavier backpack first, now known as my “cheater bag” or simply “Cheater,” and dropped it on the front step. Then I dashed back to retrieve the second backpack, now known as the “real pilgrim” or simply “Pilgrim.” I left them both outside on the step as I walked into the lobby of the hotel. I thought it would be easier to scope the place out without all that encumbering me. The old hotel was dark, and nobody was at the front desk.
To the left of the reception area was a small dining area, also completely dark. There was a very steep, narrow staircase in front of me.
I saw a small bell on the desk and rang it, hoping it would draw someone from out of the dark. After only two rings a friendly older woman, wearing a dark red sweater, her hair pulled into a tight bun on the top of her head, popped her head out of the kitchen and said, “Bonjour. J’arrive.” She emerged seconds later, asking me if I had a reservation.
I said, “Yes, Camino Ways,” praying to God that it would be there.
She frowned for a few moments, which was long enough to stir a small panic in me, and then finally said, “Oui.”
When I breathed a huge “whew” to her “oui,” she started laughing. She then asked for my passport and handed me a key for a room on the fourth floor.
“Do you have any bags?” she asked, as she handed my passport back to me.
“I do,” I said, and quickly stepped out to retrieve them. As I dragged in the first, then the second, her brow furrowed.
“I only have you registered for one person,” she said, looking at my two huge bags.
“No worries,” I replied. “I’m the only one.”
Her eyebrow raised in obvious disapproval as I tried to be as nonchalant as possible while pushing Cheater across the floor and throwing Pilgrim over my shoulder.
Looking ahead at the disastrous staircase in front of me, knowing my room was four flights up, I asked if there might be a bellboy or someone around to help me with my bags, ignoring the obvious dearth of humanity.
“Ah, non!” she said as if I had asked for her for the moon. “Pas d’ici!”
Oh, how I love the French. They have such a way of making you feel like an idiot for asking the least little thing of them.
“Okay, pas de problème,” I said, smiling, trying to act as pilgrim-like as possible, as if it were no big deal for me to carry the equivalent of a dead body and second backpack up four flights of stairs.
“Bien,” she responded, and sat back on her heels to watch me, clearly ready for the entertainment to come.
I decided I would start with Cheater and drag him up first. I took a deep breath, bent my knees, tossed the backpack over my shoulder as if it were a handbag, and like Quasimodo, hunched over and started up the stairs.
I managed to get to the landing and turn to mount the second flight when I heard her snort and walk away.
“AAARRGGH,” I silently cried out, dropping my bag on the floor. “I hate you, you stupid Cheater. We are breaking up tonight!”
We struggled for another ten minutes before I had successfully landed him on the extremely dark fourth floor and fumbled around for a light, grateful that no one was around to hear me cursing like a sailor.
I finally found the light switch and opened the door to a dreary, simple room with a single bed and a small connecting bathroom with a minuscule shower in it.
The room was freezing, and there was no heat coming out of the heater. Suddenly I felt very jet-lagged and cold. But I still had to retrieve Pilgrim and drag her upstairs, as well. Fortunately, round two was far easier than round one, and all I could think of was that there was no way I was going to struggle with Cheater like this the entire way across Spain.
Looking at the beast on the floor, I said out loud, “Better get ready to be dumped, Cheater. Unless you prove yourself truly useful to me, and fast, we will soon be parting ways for good.”
Cheater was silent.
I looked around the room, which was easy, as it was only eight feet wide. I tested the bed. It squeaked. The pillow was thin.
“Hee hee!” I laughed to myself. “No problem, thin pillow. I have my own!”
I whipped open Cheater and there she was—my fluffy, comforting, inviting, personal pillow beckoning me to lie down.
“Not now,” I said, talking to my pillow.
“I have to go into town and find where the Camino starts. I hope it’s not too difficult to figure out.”
I locked the door and made my way downstairs and across the street. The quaint town was filled with tourist and pilgrim-like shops. The first thing I noticed were countless scallop shells hanging in the windows and at the entrance of nearly every shop.
The ancient pilgrims carried scallop shells and used them as their main tool as they made their way to Santiago. The shells served several purposes. They were used as bowls for food and a means of collecting drinking water from the rivers. They also worked as a mini shovel if the pilgrims needed to dig their way out of trouble.
It then dawned on me that my favorite French dish, “Coquille St. Jacques,” a scallop dish in cream sauce, was actually named after the scallop shell of St. James.
As I walked I also noticed to my relief that there were plenty of other soon-to-be pilgrims strolling up and down the street. At least I am in the right spot, I reassured myself.
Then I remembered my pilgrim’s passport book, which I needed to get stamped while here in Saint-Jean to mark the beginning of my journey. I ran back across the street to the hotel and up the four flights of stairs to retrieve it, finding myself completely winded and out of breath once I got to my room.
“Boy, that’s not a good sign. I hope I’ll be able to do this,” I said to myself. “I’ve only walked for five minutes, and I’m ready to pass out.”
Walking back at a much slower pace, I once again crossed the street and found my way to the pilgrim’s office to get my first stamp. When I walked in, I had to sign a paper declaring the purpose of my pilgrimage. I had the choice of spiritual, religious, or adventure. I chose spiritual.
A skinny, bald, bespectacled man behind a large desk placed a stamp in one of the little squares on page one and handed me a map. He then said he wanted to show me the two ways to get to my first stop on the Camino, which was a town 31 kilometers away in Spain called Roncesvalles. He said that it was supposed to snow tomorrow and he thought it would be better if I took the path along the highway instead of over the Pyrenees, as it could be dangerous traversing the mountains in bad weather.
I had not considered that. I read that the hardest part of the Camino was going over the Pyrenees on the first day, but that it was truly magnificent and that I should just go for it, knowing it was worth it. Now I was hearing that it could be dangerous and I was being encouraged not to go.
I took the map and thanked him. I would decide what to do in the morning, when I had more energy. I then asked for directions to the beginning of the Camino route. The man told me to follow the main street out of town, then just keep following the yellow arrows all the way to Santiago. The last thing he said was, “Buen Camino!”
I walked out of the pilgrim’s office, map in hand, greeted by a sheet of pouring rain and a blast of freezing-cold wind in my face.
“Man, this stinks,” I said as I tightened the strings on my rain poncho around my face. “I hope it dries up a little tomorrow.” I then started to wander around the charming little town, seeing what might be interesting. I happened upon a gourmet chocolate shop, which thrilled me. I treated myself to a small bag of dark chocolate–covered orange jelly peels, which were my favorite, and decided I would allow myself one chocolate at the end of each day, as a reward for all that walking. I had enough for at least the first three weeks, so I was happy. I then wandered into a sports store that featured a pair of rain pants hanging out in front. Given how hard it was raining and how wet my pants already were because of it, I knew I would get soaked if this kept up, so I bought them on the spot.
Feeling very tired and hungry by then, I found my way farther down the street and into a tempting French delicatessen filled with salamis and cheeses, and all sorts of delicious jams and cookies. Still feeling too overwhelmed to focus, I asked the shopkeeper to make me a little cheese sandwich to tide me over until dinner.
Sandwich in hand, I then braved the rain once again and in just a few minutes found my way to the beginning of the path. Great! Now I knew where to start in the morning, if I decided to go over the mountains. I felt grounded with that discovery and started to relax.
I can do this, I said to myself as I headed back to my room, now feeling the full impact of the travel and the pace I had been keeping leading up to the trip.
When I entered the hotel, the same woman who registered me was waiting at the front desk. She said the pilgrim’s dinner was included in my hotel reservation and would be served at eight. Looking at my watch and seeing it was only four o’clock, I knew right then I would never be able to stay up long enough to eat dinner. I told her I would not be coming for dinner, glad that I had my sandwich, and that I would see her for breakfast.
“Okay, if you wish,” she said, not believing I was passing up dinner.
I slowly walked up the four flights, switched on the light in the dark hallway, and opened the door to my room. It was still raining outside, and inside my room, it was still freezing. I wasn’t worried, though. I opened Cheater and found my long underwear and cashmere hat and gloves, as well as my tiny down sleeping bag. Bundled up in all of this, I promptly fell asleep until six the next morning.