Finishing the Via Podiensis

I wasn’t thrilled when my hosts in the Saint-Palais albergue informed me that breakfast began at 7am. It’s Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port day! I wanted to be there as early as I could. For a little while, I considered rolling out at 6, without breakfast. I would have been fine; I had supplies and there were a couple of snack stops along the way. Then I thought about my hosts, though, who had dutifully maintained their vigil all day, completing one sudoku puzzle after another and admitting only two other pilgrims. With just two days left in their fortnight as volunteers, they had hosted a grand total of 17 pilgrims. They reminded me of my two hosts at Escayrac, who had even fewer visitors. While I’m sure they’re pleased to have been of service to all who came, I imagine it was a hollower experience.

I’ve grudgingly come to recognize over the years that my devotion to self-reliance can function as a barrier between myself and others. I like to be of service; I hate to be needy. That orientation, though, perpetually creates an imbalance, while also closing me off. To need is to open yourself to another, to be at least slightly vulnerable, and it’s in those moments that you potentially build something deeper. To need is to assert the value of the other person.

Now, certainly, my stomach was rumbling and I was ready for a cup of coffee. Let’s not make me into a saint here. But this breakfast was an opportunity to receive, to break bread together, and to acknowledge their efforts. It was time well spent. I really didn’t need to leave at 6.

Nonetheless, when breakfast was finished and thanks were offered, I blasted out the door like buckshot, and when I discovered some blue woven into the clouds overhead, my pace only accelerated. I was like a five-year-old on Christmas morning, all adrenaline and springy legs, wanting to get this started RIGHT NOW. The route out of Saint-Palais has shifted since I was last here, following the newly built Chemin de Xibaltare immediately into the hills. The chemin does not mess around at all today, launching the pilgrim into an ascent, and nothing could have better suited my mood. I pumped my legs furiously, watching the trees change around me every 50m in elevation gained, until I finally emerged at a clearing at Mont Saint-Sauveur, where the Christian Lapie sculptures—three tall cylindrical pillars, like gaunt inquisitors surveying the hills—towered high above me. Beneath me, clouds filled the valley; across from me, a footpath emerged from the white sea to the next hill top. I had just opened my first present.

I trotted down the footpath, plunging into the sea. Suddenly, everything was misty and gray. In the midst of that was the Stèle de Gibraltar, which marks the official convergence point of three of France’s major chemins. Past that, I knew that I just needed to swim across the channel and I could climb the other shore. And sure enough, before long I was ascending once more, careening headlong towards my second gift: the Chapelle Soyarza. Few places have loomed in my memory quite like this one—this charming little chapel, surrounded by a ring of trees, on a hill with 360-degree views. I had anticipated my return here many times; I was looking forward to a long, quiet sit. Instead, a Basque shepherd was up there, savoring the view with his two dogs, neither of whom were impressed by me. However, he was quite talkative, and thoroughly undeterred by my linguistic incompetence. Once again, I had to catch myself. At first I was annoyed; this wasn’t the visit I had planned. And then I got over myself and was delighted to play the game, gesturing wildly and gradually decoding the underlying meaning of each comment. What a pleasure to have those ten minutes, trying to explain what on earth the gps was all about.

From there, it was on through the hills to Ostabat, where the bar-épicerie-boulangerie was already in full swing. Despite being a “café au lait” in words, this was really my first café con leche, and that was absolutely my third present of the day. I damn near ordered another.

Alas, the tree was largely emptied out at that point. There were still some smaller pleasures waiting for me in my stocking, but the second half of the walk was considerably less interesting given that it parallels the highway most of the time. I was impressed by the current state of the Ospital de Utxiat, a free pilgrim shelter after Ostabat, which looks quite cozy now. It has been well cared for. I enjoyed the church in Gamarthe as well, though like Ostabat’s it was locked on this morning. Saint-Jean-le-Vieux becomes more lively with each visit. The pilgrim-friendly grocery is thriving; the bars were packed with folks enjoying lunch. The church is lavishly painted. I’ve come to love the balconies inside Basque churches and this is a good one. On the whole, “the other” Saint-Jean is making it well worth one last pause, just 3.5km from SJPDP.

The home stretch is all paved, passing another charming small Basque church before finally climbing through a parking lot and turning into the Porte Saint-Jacques. And just like that, my walk on the GR-65 is over.

Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities has shaped my thinking about travel in any number of ways. No passage from it recurs in my thinking more, though, than this one: “Despina can be reached in two ways: by ship or by camel. The city displays one face to the traveler arriving overland and a different one to him who arrives by sea.” The camel driver sees “a ship; he knows it is a city, but he thinks of it as a vessel that will take him away from the desert,” while the sailor “thinks of it as a camel from whose pack hang wine-skins and bags of candied fruit, date wine, tobacco leaves, and already he sees himself at the head of a long caravan taking him away from the desert of the sea.” “Each city,” Calvino concludes, “receives its form from the desert it opposes.”

How different is the Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port experienced by the walker arriving through the Porte Saint Jacques, having walked the GR-65, as opposed to the one arriving by train! The train traveler is nervous, unsettled, just at the beginning of an adventure that promises challenge and change. The walker is accomplished, confident, both satisfied and sad. The train traveler is surrounded by people in a similar position, all potential friends and fellow travelers in the weeks ahead; the walker is overwhelmed by the sudden spike in numbers, uncertain about how they fit into this new world.

And I am utterly tangential to all of this, given that I’m veering off tomorrow onto the GR-10, climbing into the Pyrenees, but definitely not going towards Roncesvalles like the rest of the pilgrims. I’m also spending a second night in Saint-Jean tomorrow, courtesy of the train. That’s a good thing, because I’ve spent precious little time in the town today, as a consequence of needing to prepare and then deliver a presentation for the American Pilgrims on the Camino gathering. I’m very happy to have a second night to do Saint-Jean right—and to have that night be Saint James Day, to boot.