Capturing the Coastal Portuguese Camino
Earlier this fall I walked 260 kilometers from Porto, Portugal to Santiago de Compostela, Spain on the Coastal Portuguese Camino route. Below I tried to capture what was a pretty epic experience.
I was at a crossroads. Not the metaphorical one I’d been perpetuating since turning 40 six months earlier. Literally, I had to choose between going right or left for the last stretch of my Camino de Santiago pilgrimage. I’d walked over 250 kilometers and this was the final push.
To the right was a lovely, shaded wooded path that I’d been told was the flatter, easier, quieter route.
To the left was a steep uphill ascent leading directly into the city of Santiago de Compostela.
I’d already logged 16 miles. The afternoon sun was blazing.
A couple walked up (as people are often doing on this pilgrimage) and pondered the same decision. They were lovely. They decided on the easier, wooded path.
Fuck it, I thought. (I might have actually said it out loud. I’d been traveling alone for over two weeks at this point. Many conversations with myself had taken place.)
I chose the uphill climb.
I’d started this journey 13 days earlier in Porto, Portugal. Well, actually I’d started 16 days earlier when I left Oakland, California and landed in Lisbon. The first few travel days were a blur of adjusting to time zones, language and culture changes, and dealing with nerves that increased exponentially as I approached my Camino start day.
Between all of that, there were some highs and lows in Lisbon.
High: amazing wine bar in Lisbon with the cutest dog called Poncha.
Low: getting ripped off by my taxi driver upon arrival to the city.
High: very cute boutique hotel, and did I mention the Portuguese wine?
High: really lovely yoga class taught by a woman from Lithuania. I still feel zen thinking about her class, and that space.
Low: super packed train from Lisbon to Porto with the WORST neighbor in the seat next to me.
That was a blow. I’d been pretty excited for my first European train ride in years. All through the uncomfortable ride I kept thinking of what a friend who lives in Paris and blogs about her voyages (among other topics) had said recently: travel isn’t what it used to be.
I’d remembered the romantic train rides I’d taken from Paris when I lived there over a decade ago. The allure of the train station. The ease of boarding - so much calmer than an airport. Comfortable seats at affordable rates. Views of the beautiful French countryside as you glided along at super efficient high speeds. Destinations like Giverny, Brussels, La Rochelle.
Anyway, the train from Lisbon to Porto was not that.
Arriving in Porto spurred another set of highs and lows and my nerves were really on full alert. What was I doing here? Could I really walk 260 km over the course of 13 days? Was I kidding myself? Did I pack absolutely all of the wrong things? How is it that my feet hurt already? (I knew the answer to that one. I’d made a really questionable decision to take a decently long walk in Lisbon’s cobblestoned hilly streets wearing only flip flops. You can see why I was questioning my own judgment.)
The internal spiraling got worse when I met a couple of other pilgrims who were also doing the Coastal Portuguese Camino. I met them in the hotel bar, as one does. They were super lovely. They were also super SPORTY. My inner comparison demons really started to take it up a notch:
I’m not enough.
I can barely walk across a room without hurting myself.
WHAT DO I THINK I’M DOING HERE.
The logic was simple, if self-sabotaging. I’m not as sporty. I will fail.
Later that night I sat at a (kind of crappy) cafe by myself, and cried in public as I waited on a Tosta Mixta sandwich.
It wasn’t only my lack of sportiness. It was a special combo of loneliness, jet lag, and language challenges paired with a huge pile of self-doubt.
Looking back I realize it was all part of a process. A decompression. And the start of something.
The next day I woke up determined. It was the day before I would start my Camino. Number one: I was going to fuel myself. And not with more ham and cheese (No offense to Portugal. They do ham and cheese better than anyone.)
I started the day by sleeping in a little. Then, I walked my American butt to a hipster cafe. The food was amazing and nourishing.
Afterwards I took care of some business. The flip flops I’d packed as my only non-trainer shoes were a rookie mistake. I picked up some hiking sandals and a couple of other items at a fun shopping center near my hotel.
Then, I set out to have some fucking fun. I was in Porto. It was a dream to be there. I took in some sights. I had an orgasmic lunch (pineapple chicken salad). I walked near the riverfront. I bought cute postcards for my brothers who wouldn’t care less about receiving them. I ate a (pretty big) pastel de nata.
Walking the Camino had been a dream for more than a decade. I’d first heard about it from a Spanish friend while we were both living in Paris. He’d walked the Camino multiple times and offered to map a path for me if I ever wanted to do one (we’ve since lost touch otherwise I would have taken him up on that!)
I don’t know what exactly drew me to the idea, but it was more a feeling than a thought: I’ll do that someday.
Earlier this year, in January 2022, I met up with a couple of women to do a hike in Berkeley (as one does in the Bay area on the weekends). I’d never met the women IRL. I’d met one of the women virtually through an amazing workshop I’d joined during the pandemic. We always seemed to have a lot in common in our musings about life. I was excited to meet up while she was visiting a good friend of hers who lives in the Bay area.
The meet-up was probably a little soul shifting. One, it was a wonderful morning spent hiking and having brunch. Outside of the great company and beautiful setting - it also felt so NORMAL. Socializing. Having brunch. Like most people, I hadn’t had much of that since March 2020.
Anyway, my friend’s friend (do you follow) brought a gift for me (did I mention they were lovely?) My workshop friend had remembered me mentioning a dream of doing a Camino. Her friend had done a camino somewhat recently AND wrote a book about it. She brought me a copy of her book.
I was at a crossroads (metaphorically this time). Professionally I was pretty unhappy in a new job I’d started five months previously. I was approaching forty and while some say mid-life crises are a myth, to them I say screw you. Externally, the world was a mess.
Hearing my friend’s friend (who now also felt like my friend) talk about her Camino (and also her life) was a breath of fresh air. The seed was planted. Maybe 2022 was my Camino year.
For the next eight months or so I did what I usually do when I have a somewhat big dream. I did a lot of talking about it. Not much action-ing about it.
Except walking. I did start walking a lot.
About one month out from the approximate dates I’d said I would do my pilgrimage, I gave in and booked my lodging and a luggage transfer with a tour company. I wanted to walk 260 km apparently, but I didn’t want to plan out the exact route and research 15 different places to stay etc.
My camino was the Coastal Portuguese route. Starting in Porto, Portugal and ending, as pilgrims have for thousands of years, in Santiago de Compostela, Spain.
So, I’m on the final stretch. I feel SO good. I can’t describe how good I feel. I’m practically running up the steep incline into Santiago. I am alone. Well alone on the path. There is traffic on busy roads next to me, but it doesn’t bother me. My legs feel so strong. My lungs feel so open and clear, and I take the continual incline easily. It’s almost like I’d been training, walking an average of 20 km a day for the past 12 days. I felt, physically, the best I’d felt in my body in a long time. I felt alive. I felt like my heart was glowing.
There were other stretches of this trek that did not feel nearly as good (Vigo was one). Anyone who has taken their pilgrimage through Vigo probably has something to say about it.
But there were other parts that felt amazing in different ways. Beautiful stretches of wandering through Hamlets and forests and streams - in a light, dreamy mist - after leaving Viana do Castelo. There was a makeshift picnic lunch next to the ocean - again alone - no one but me, the sun on my face, the coast to my side, the air healing and drying my poor feet.
There were glasses of wine - alone and with beautiful company. Stories, fears, dreams, shared.
There were moments of hostility (external and internal). There were moments of hospitality so touching I teared up. A Spanish tortilla from this hostel comes to mind. A free glass of Cava from Restaurant Pedro Madruga also comes to mind, as does Hotel Meira.
There were physical and mental challenges. Crossing this bridge on foot at the end of a 17 mile day was one. Full disclosure: I tried to find a Bolt ride to cross the bridge in a car like a sane person. But there were none available. Nothing like crossing a bridge constructed in 1878 during rush hour, also with a rushing river far, far below you, to end your day.
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There was a moment, after leaving Vigo, where I started to feel like I was in a different dimension. I’d walk by schools, kids playing outside at recess (is there any better sound in the world than happy kids playing?) I’d walk by homes, the smell of people cooking lunch or dinner. People on the trail, seemingly out on “normal” walks for an hour or so with their partner or their dog. In other words, people in their daily lives. I felt so outside of that, almost in an alternate universe. Where all I did was walk. Walking somewhere between 12-26 kilometers everyday, enjoying (or not) whatever the Camino had to offer me that day.
It’s probably fair to say the Camino was a transformative experience for me. Of all the things I experienced about the world, and about myself - there was a sort of coming home to myself that meant the most.
The beauty of the camino was that I didn’t answer to anyone else but me. It was just me and my super strong sturdy feet (that I started to worship during my trek). I would (internally) thank them and praise them for all their hard work as I walked along.
Everyday, it was just me tending to myself and my journey. Whether I needed rest, water, food, bandaids, conversation. My only jobs were to get from point A to point B, and to take care of myself along the way.
I had to travel alone for 17 days. Walk over 260 kilometers. Gain innumerable aches and sores. Do 12 loads of sink laundry. To “find” myself again.
I kind of liked the person I found. She was adventurous. And kind. And fun. Capable. Strong. She was also (somewhat) sporty.
So, I’m walking up the hill into Santiago. I start to move away from highways and traffic on the outskirts of the city and move towards crowded cafes - lively on a Friday afternoon. I start to move into a busy metropolitan area with that distinct European charm.
I weave my way toward the cathedral in Santiago, my final destination. I drink the last drop of my water. I take in the busy city streets. I feel … I just FEEL. I feel immensely excited. I feel proud. At the risk of sounding completely crazy, I feel at one with the world?
I don’t know that I could have felt better at that moment.
I make it to the cathedral plaza. It’s a super sunny, bright Friday afternoon. Hundreds of people are milling about the huge square in front of the church - taking photos, hugging, laughing, smiling, lounging on the ground - napping on their backpacks.
I smile. I take a selfie (of course I do). I take a screenshot of the GPS route from Porto to Santiago. That beautiful, complete line on the digital map. I think, and write to my family, “fucking finally.” But I mean it in the best way.
I see friends I’d met along the way. We’re all brimming over. We go get our certificates - take care of one final “to do.” I’m pilgrim #931 of the day (!). I accidentally growl at the certificate woman a little because I think after all that walking she’s misspelling my name. But really she’s writing it in Latin. I buy all the trinkets in my line of sight. Extra special, second certificate? Check. Camino de Santiago lapel pin? Yes, please. Special cardboard cylinder to transport my pieces of paper back to the U.S.? Put it on my tab.
Then, all of a sudden, I’m done. My pilgrimage is complete.
I sit down at a cafe, alone. I chat up a German woman next to me who is also alone. Actually I think she chats me up. She hasn’t just finished her Camino, but she has done one previously - and she also walked alone. She was lovely.
Soon other friends I’d met along the way start to trickle in as they wrap up their Camino. Within an hour, I’m the least alone person. I’ve got new friends. I’ve got Spanish wine in my glass. My heart is full, and I’ve got the experience of a lifetime to take with me when I go.
So great to read your story Laurel, and to meet you en route. I hope we meet again one day :)
This is beautiful, Laurel! I’m so glad you made this dream happen and that it proved so meaningful. ❤️