Walking the Camino Frances requires an endless number of choices that must be made every day.
They start with:
Continue readingTaking responsibility for the choices you make
Tag Archives: writing
The Camino path plays mind games before yielding a most magnificent city
A mystical morning, on the path from little Ages to Burgos. The full moon was strong enough to cut through the gauzy morning haze.
No headlamp was needed, though Deny from Quebec and I walked right past the turn, both of us talking, neither of us looking for the yellow arrows in the woozy dawn light.
Continue readingWalking into the moon
My bunk-room mates settled the issue for me this morning in Belorado: Should I get up early for the 18 mile walk to Ages or start late and cope with the afternoon sun?
The rustling and zipping of bags, dropping of electronics in the dark, scurrying to the bathroom, the burst of red light from headlamps — it all began before 5 a.m.
That’s ok. I wasn’t sleeping much anyway.
Continue readingThe Camino is the gift that keeps on giving
Last night in Santo Domingo, a woman from Wisconsin handed me a “tree of life” sticker which I promptly pasted on the back of my iPhone case. Next to the one from DeYoung museum in San Francisco.
She handed them out several of them to people in our auberge bunk room.
Continue readingCamino-living: Cramming a 224-pound life into a 17-pound backpack for the next 43 days.
That’s it. That’s as light as I can make it, 17 pounds (or 7.711 kilograms).
I am now relieved that I picked the Osprey Manta 34-liter bag because there isn’t a cubic inch left to spare. I’m also relieved that I opted to jettison the 2.5-liter HydraPak that came with it.
I needed that space for, you know, clothing. As for hydration, a couple of water bottles in the side pockets will do nicely.
People like me, we find ways to fill an extra-large suitcase just as easily as we fill a medium-sized one.
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These boots are made for walking, and that’s just what they’ll do — well, one pair will
On Sunday, I leave Mexico to walk the Camino Francés.
That’s about 500 U.S. miles of walking over perhaps 34 days.
Unlike the Adirondacks, the Pacific Crest, or the Appalachian trails in the U.S., the Camino has cell service, probably too many people (to which I am contributing), and many indoor sleeping options, from bunk-room auberges to hotels with saunas and pools.
Continue readingWater, water everywhere and … well, that’s the whole story
I walked and waded 19 miles along muddy roads on Sunday, only to find myself wading through a couple of inches of water in my apartment during the torrential downpour later in the evening. Wet and wild was sort of the theme on Sunday.
There I was, standing at the front door, watching the downpour and marveling at how Moppit and I had dodged a bullet.
Moments before, we’d set out for our evening walk when the sprinkling started. Normally, we’d race around the block before the rain began in earnest. Not this time. After eight rainy seasons in San Miguel de Allende, you learn to listen to your gut, read the clouds, scope out the wind, and sense the drop in barometric pressure.
We turned around and raced home, just as the skies let loose.
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Pool Maintenance Lessons from the 1970s; Rugby and the Reflecting Pool
I wish President Trump had called me before tackling the reflecting pool. I could have saved him a lot of time and money.
You see, at one time, I was deeply involved in the pool maintenance business in Washington, D.C. I know a thing or two about algae, chlorine, diatomaceous earth, and how appealing you can become when you put on lifeguard shorts.
Yes, among the many jobs I held in those early years of wandering, wondering, discovery, staying one step ahead of the draft, and playing rugby, there was a time when I worked for the White Russian in the Washington pool business.
Continue readingGrandson: ‘Do you have pictures of your bull-fighting endeavors?’
The text came early last night from my 8-year-old grandson, Tallac. The one every grandfather awaits. The one in which a child actually asks an old man something about the life he lived long, long ago.
The question: “Do you have pictures of your bull-fighting endeavors?”
It was as close as I would ever get to “Grandpa, what did you do during the war?”
Or, in theatrical terms, it was my Peter Falk in “Princess Bride” moment.
And I guess I blew it.
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The magic in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge
I’m looking out over that Golden Gate Bridge
On another gorgeous sunny Saturday.
— Doobie Brothers, “Listen to the Music”
Most bridges, if they lead into a city of any size, lack pizzazz. Oh, they may be architectural gems, but you barely notice this.
Why?
Because most bridges are surrounded by distracting urban clutter.
High-rises, highway on- and off-ramps, shipbuilders, warehouses, industrial stacks, skyscrapers, condo towers — the stuff that makes cities be cities. This stuff bustles up against the entrances and exits of bridges. Suddenly, you are crossing a span with little sense of its architectural might. Rarely do you get to appreciate the majesty of a span uncluttered.
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