- Time of past OR future Camino
- May 2023: Via Francigena, Lucca to Rome
I'm sure I'm not the only one who's done this camino! I'm surprised there's no guidebook or maps out there for it. I've been doing this camino with my occasionally supportive, but often quite irritating, inner voice of reason.
Stage 1: Daydreaming I. I made it fifty years on this planet. I'd kind of like to do something big. Maybe take a year off and backpack around the world. Or maybe do another short tour with the Peace Corps. That Camino-thing in Spain I've heard about looks interesting. I'll read some blogs, and ahh look there's a whole forum dedicated to people who love the Camino, and ... man ... that looks amazing. And I catch myself at work looking out the window and daydreaming about quiet days walking through the Spanish country side & long summer nights ...
Stage 2: Early Planning. This really looks doable. I could take three months off work, and I think I can save enough, it doesn't look that expensive. I already have most of what I'd need. I love how free and simple it sounds: just wake up, and walk. And I check with my boss, and he says o.k. I join the forum, and make my first tentative post.
Stage 3: The Rain in Spain. I start to make a list of what I might need. There's a lot of advice on the forum, and on different websites. I mean, a lot of advice. I definitely need merino wool, two of everything. And some fancy wind jacket. I don't know about hiking poles yet. I'll add them to the list. New hiking shorts, definitely. And maybe some rain gear. And, uh oh - there's about a hundred posts here on rain gear, each one containing dozens of different opinions. Am I an umbrella guy? A poncho guy? A complete head-to-toe rain-resistant outfit guy? I have no idea. It's information overload. I'll just add everything to the list, and bookmark every discussion, and think about it later.
Stage 4: Reality Check I. I now have a shopping wish-list that will cost more than the entire Camino. I need to take a step back and think about what I really need.
Stage 5: Over Planning. This was my favorite stage so far. I had it all mapped out: I'd fly into Amsterdam, join friends for Pride, ship my club gear home, head to Paris for a bit, then to Le Puy. I downloaded lists of all the best gîtes and albergues, and planned a day-by-day schedule that would put me in an interesting town or city every weekend. I added slacks and a nice shirt to my packing list, along with the necessary hair products and grooming tools. They don't weigh that much. Some say the Camino isn't a fashion show. I say: it's Spain. It's always a fashion show. People want to talk about "Camino Barbies?" I'll show them Camino Barbie! I even had alternate routes mapped out to take in the Caminos del Salvador and Primitivo. Or maybe the Invierno. I want to do them all. I was going to have the best Camino since Godelsac. It would be epic. And when it was over I'd head down to Ibiza for a week of dancing. Because: why not?
Stage 6: Letting it all go (Reality Check II). And this was the hardest stage. As much fun as I had planning out the 'perfect camino' (and honestly, it was fun), I knew deep down that all this structure was contrary to what appealed to me in the first place about the Camino. And seriously: Ibiza??? The last time I went clubbing I watched the clock for two hours wondering when a polite time would be to ditch my friends and go home and sleep.
Stage 7: Daydreaming II. I bought my ticket. It's real! I'm doing hikes on the weekend, and I'm feeling stronger with every hill I climb. I reward myself with pasta and Spanish wine at night, anticipating the real thing. I pull out my Spanish and French books, and feel good about my level. Miam Miam Dodo arrives, and I devour it. I knew it would be useful, but no one told me that it was funny, too! My hiking blanket arrives from Amazon. I sleep with it at night, even though it's 80 degrees outside. My hands-free umbrella arrives, and I hope that we have a super rainy weekend so I can try it out. I am so ready. So very ready. I just need to find the right shoes ...
Stage 8: Going Mental over Shoes. Boots. Hiking shoes. Boots. Hiking shoes. I change my mind every day, and if I thought the discussion on rain gear was overwhelming - this just about put me over the edge. I read thirty articles on blister prevention. Every test hike I took I'd be hyper aware of my feet. My boots felt fine. I liked the support. I'm taking my boots. Except my toes felt boxed in. Maybe I was just being mental. Maybe I wasn't. Could I really wear these every day for 75 days? Ugh. No. My trail shoes felt fine. I'm taking my shoes. Except they don't have that much support, and they're a couple years old, and they're challenging on the rough sections of the trail. I'm taking my boots.
Back and forth. Footwear is important. I need to make the right choice!
I go to the store to buy a new pair of hiking shoes. And end up buying a pair of boots.
Stage 9: This is Not a Panic Attack. I repeat, this is not a panic attack. This is just normal pre-Camino anxiety, right? But the truth of the matter is, I'm not a morning person. It takes me three cups of coffee before I can form a basic sentence. Why do I think I can just wake up and go at the crack of dawn every morning for 75 days? And on all those weekend hikes I've been doing I average about 3 km / hour, and that's not including breaks. Sure, it's rough terrain, but still. The truth is, I never managed to hit the trail before noon. My longest hike was 12 km. And now what, I'm thinking of walking 25 km each day? I don't even know why I am doing this. I like people, but I also like having my own space. And I don't even go to Church. My last confession was sometime in the 1980s. Some priest will probably sprinkle me with holy water, and it will burn.
Stage 10: Settling into a Groove. Back to Plan A. I'm just going to go to Le Puy, and start walking.
Which, of course, is the advice that every single veteran on the forum gives to us newbies. Some of us just take longer, mentally, to reach that point.
Nine weeks to go. I wonder how many more stages there are before I finally set foot in France?
Stage 1: Daydreaming I. I made it fifty years on this planet. I'd kind of like to do something big. Maybe take a year off and backpack around the world. Or maybe do another short tour with the Peace Corps. That Camino-thing in Spain I've heard about looks interesting. I'll read some blogs, and ahh look there's a whole forum dedicated to people who love the Camino, and ... man ... that looks amazing. And I catch myself at work looking out the window and daydreaming about quiet days walking through the Spanish country side & long summer nights ...
Stage 2: Early Planning. This really looks doable. I could take three months off work, and I think I can save enough, it doesn't look that expensive. I already have most of what I'd need. I love how free and simple it sounds: just wake up, and walk. And I check with my boss, and he says o.k. I join the forum, and make my first tentative post.
Stage 3: The Rain in Spain. I start to make a list of what I might need. There's a lot of advice on the forum, and on different websites. I mean, a lot of advice. I definitely need merino wool, two of everything. And some fancy wind jacket. I don't know about hiking poles yet. I'll add them to the list. New hiking shorts, definitely. And maybe some rain gear. And, uh oh - there's about a hundred posts here on rain gear, each one containing dozens of different opinions. Am I an umbrella guy? A poncho guy? A complete head-to-toe rain-resistant outfit guy? I have no idea. It's information overload. I'll just add everything to the list, and bookmark every discussion, and think about it later.
Stage 4: Reality Check I. I now have a shopping wish-list that will cost more than the entire Camino. I need to take a step back and think about what I really need.
Stage 5: Over Planning. This was my favorite stage so far. I had it all mapped out: I'd fly into Amsterdam, join friends for Pride, ship my club gear home, head to Paris for a bit, then to Le Puy. I downloaded lists of all the best gîtes and albergues, and planned a day-by-day schedule that would put me in an interesting town or city every weekend. I added slacks and a nice shirt to my packing list, along with the necessary hair products and grooming tools. They don't weigh that much. Some say the Camino isn't a fashion show. I say: it's Spain. It's always a fashion show. People want to talk about "Camino Barbies?" I'll show them Camino Barbie! I even had alternate routes mapped out to take in the Caminos del Salvador and Primitivo. Or maybe the Invierno. I want to do them all. I was going to have the best Camino since Godelsac. It would be epic. And when it was over I'd head down to Ibiza for a week of dancing. Because: why not?
Stage 6: Letting it all go (Reality Check II). And this was the hardest stage. As much fun as I had planning out the 'perfect camino' (and honestly, it was fun), I knew deep down that all this structure was contrary to what appealed to me in the first place about the Camino. And seriously: Ibiza??? The last time I went clubbing I watched the clock for two hours wondering when a polite time would be to ditch my friends and go home and sleep.
Stage 7: Daydreaming II. I bought my ticket. It's real! I'm doing hikes on the weekend, and I'm feeling stronger with every hill I climb. I reward myself with pasta and Spanish wine at night, anticipating the real thing. I pull out my Spanish and French books, and feel good about my level. Miam Miam Dodo arrives, and I devour it. I knew it would be useful, but no one told me that it was funny, too! My hiking blanket arrives from Amazon. I sleep with it at night, even though it's 80 degrees outside. My hands-free umbrella arrives, and I hope that we have a super rainy weekend so I can try it out. I am so ready. So very ready. I just need to find the right shoes ...
Stage 8: Going Mental over Shoes. Boots. Hiking shoes. Boots. Hiking shoes. I change my mind every day, and if I thought the discussion on rain gear was overwhelming - this just about put me over the edge. I read thirty articles on blister prevention. Every test hike I took I'd be hyper aware of my feet. My boots felt fine. I liked the support. I'm taking my boots. Except my toes felt boxed in. Maybe I was just being mental. Maybe I wasn't. Could I really wear these every day for 75 days? Ugh. No. My trail shoes felt fine. I'm taking my shoes. Except they don't have that much support, and they're a couple years old, and they're challenging on the rough sections of the trail. I'm taking my boots.
Back and forth. Footwear is important. I need to make the right choice!
I go to the store to buy a new pair of hiking shoes. And end up buying a pair of boots.
Stage 9: This is Not a Panic Attack. I repeat, this is not a panic attack. This is just normal pre-Camino anxiety, right? But the truth of the matter is, I'm not a morning person. It takes me three cups of coffee before I can form a basic sentence. Why do I think I can just wake up and go at the crack of dawn every morning for 75 days? And on all those weekend hikes I've been doing I average about 3 km / hour, and that's not including breaks. Sure, it's rough terrain, but still. The truth is, I never managed to hit the trail before noon. My longest hike was 12 km. And now what, I'm thinking of walking 25 km each day? I don't even know why I am doing this. I like people, but I also like having my own space. And I don't even go to Church. My last confession was sometime in the 1980s. Some priest will probably sprinkle me with holy water, and it will burn.
Stage 10: Settling into a Groove. Back to Plan A. I'm just going to go to Le Puy, and start walking.
Which, of course, is the advice that every single veteran on the forum gives to us newbies. Some of us just take longer, mentally, to reach that point.
Nine weeks to go. I wonder how many more stages there are before I finally set foot in France?
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Your sense of humour will serve you well on the Camino 
