The Wonderfully-Hard

Every pilgrim can be saught out by a handful of similarities. You'll recognize them by their Camino calf tan line from wearing leggings to their knees and forgetting to reapply the sunscreen. You can see whose been walking by an all too common knee brace or an obvious limp. You'll can see their doiter or osprey backpacks, which they will insist on bringing it into the loo or will be carefully watching it while purchasing soup - it's their lifeline after all (regardless if they say all they need is their passport, CC and cell). And attached to that pack is a shell. The shell is a significant representation of the Camino in relation to St. James, which I will be into in a fee posts. But this symbol can be found everywhere, from markings to follow the path to Santiago, which is what I've been following, it's etched into stone carvings and incorporates into beautiful designs on buildings and beyond.

You will see no shell on my pink backpack. Everyday on the Camino has be wonderful and hard. Fellow trekkers ask me if I'm going to Santiago and I reply hesitantly: I want too.  Everything about this trip has been wonderfully-hard, from realizing that I'm not so interested in solo adventures anymore as I'm hurting and craving for that +1 to come with, the emotional tolles that come with your Camino friends going ahead or staying being and the body aches that have been popping up as soon as one heals, are just a few of those nasty moments that make this walk just so wonderful. The scenery has been truly astonishing and how my body of mine has survived is just as much as a surprise, but at the back of my mind, I've been wondering if this entire walk is really mine.

And then my eye is irritated. I've been coping by telling myself I'm crazy and fine and that I'll be in Burgos in two nights if it's something serious. A funny man from Europe mentions in concern that my eyes look rough. And they both start hurting and the only relief come from sleep. My new friend Jay held my hand as I teared up in frustration and fear in a room full of pulgrims.

Before we left our hostel, before the sun woke up, Grandma (we've taken to calling the two Korean people grandma and grandpa as they truly are old enough to be and probably are) gave me a hug and told me with love and certainty that I will be okay.

I worriedly walk my way seven of the twenty required kilometers to Burgos, but my eyes are screaming, from the sun. I shame myself by saying my possible eye infection is a result of cheaping out on 5-7 Euro hostels. I kick myself for not dealing with it ealier at a clinic when surly the only thing open on a sunday is the emergency. And the crazy kicks in. Am I going to go blind in Spain? How am I going to run a marathon blind? I didn't cry on the Camino, not today anyways, but I did cry in the hospital when they sent me to an eye specialist as they refused to help me at the family hospital.

I waiting in the "big room" the kind receptionist told me, after taking my passport and medical insurance  (huge shout out to Shawna, it worked and was totally worth it!). A few misguided trips and messy eye sherades later, I met with an English speaking doctor. He gave me some dye for my eyes and assured me I wouldn't die and started speaking in Spanish as my crazy took flight yet again.

He told me my eyes are dry. You're laughing and shaking your head, I know because I did.

This Canadian isn't used to such heat and spending so much time out of the office. His prescription was to wear my sunglasses and get some eyedrops and reassured me once again that I did not have an infection. I cried again.

Jf And for me, perhaps that's how I became a pilgrim. It's knowing when to know when I need to stay strong during the wonderully-hard 800km walk and when to know when I'm allowed to fall apart. It's literally a new perspective and relization that not only am I financially lucky enough to take the time to wall this walk, but physically I'm able to, too, even with a little body pain.

And so I'm formally keeping my eyes out for a shell for the following 500KM.

I've survived day 1 of the roaring hot Mesetas thanks to the man at the bar putting ice(!!) in my water blatter; these kind moments have occurred a few times when people find out I'm a solo girl [all the way] from Canada, and I couldn't be more thankful. Since Burgos, I've walked 300km. 

Truly,

A strong and especially humbled girl

If you look anything like your passport you're too sick to travel.