I wheeled around because I / didn't hear what you had said / and saw you dancin' with Elihu / up on Leemor's bed ...

... and I was foggy, rather groggy / You helped me to my car / the binding belt enclosing me / A sample in a jar ...



So, it came out several months ago, but I was away ... I couldn't believe it when I got my Christmas present from my favorite four boys today.

On top of all the other lovely things about coming home, I discovered that Phish has released a recording of their first real, out-of-the-Northeast tour, which happened in 1988, in, of all places, Colorado. Here's what Rolling Stone had to say about it:

Long before Phish replaced the Grateful Dead as America's greatest jam band, the foursome was one goofy-ass bar act. This three-CD set documents Phish's first trip outside their Northeast stomping ground: a 1988 seven-date tour in the Rocky Mountain state. Opting for concise compositions instead of expansive, noodly jams, Colorado '88 is a surprisingly crisp compilation that shows off the band's chops with early, by-the-numbers versions of classics like "You Enjoy Myself" and "Fluffhead." There's also a mountain of rarities, including "Harpua," the fantastical story of a guy named Jimmy, his dog and a doomed cat called Poster Nutbag that has attained mythical status among the Phish phaithful.


So here's the list:

Disc One
1. The Curtain With
2. The Sloth
3. Icculus
4. Colonel Forbin's Ascent
5. Fly Famous Mockingbird
6. I Didn't Know
7. Maiden Voyage
8. Timber
9. Harpua

Disc Two
1. Fluffhead
2. Run Like An Antelope
3. Sneaking Sally Thru The Alley
4. Light Up Or Leave Me Alone
6. I Know A Little
7. The Man Who Stepped Into Yesterday
8. Avenu Malkenu
9. The Man Who Stepped Into Yesterday
10. Flat Fee
11. McGrupp And The Watchful Hosemasters
12. Alumni Blues
13. A Letter To Jimmy Page
14. Alumni Blues

Disc Three
1. Camel Walk
2. Wilson
3. No Dogs Allowed
4. Mike's Song
5. I Am Hydrogen
6. Weekapaug Groove
7. You Enjoy Myself
8. Cities
9. Dave's Energy Guide
10. Cities
11. AC/DC Bag
12. Corinna
13. Thank You


You know that I dislike as much as anyone the idea of being one of those aging jam-band phans who yearn for the old days of going on Summer Tour, reminisce about 40-minute YEMs, nine-hour shows, fire spinners on the lot, Magic Hat and veggie burritos at 2 am. We all know that, happy as we were on New Year's Eve 2002, nothing was the same after the hiatus, and I can't say that songs like Army of One stir anything all that primal in me. But I must confess that I do have my moments. I remember the first time I saw a glowstick war, or Fishman play the vacuum. The feeling when they play the opening chords to Divided Sky. Shaggy-haired Trey. Waste. Singing to my dog, whose name is Wilson, that I'd punch him in the eye. When they walked onto the stage the last time I saw them at Deer Creek, the first night, and opened with Loving Cup. Yeah, when they played Prince Caspian, I cried. I grew up listening to all the best music from the sixties; my dad took me to shows from before I can remember, and I saw the Dead play the Pyramid three months before Jerry died. But I *grew up* to Phish - say what you will, Phish was ours, we barefoot children, drinking bathtub gin and wading in the velvet sea, who know who's in the freezer and what the banker said, and didn't believe the florist. And just now I'd give a great deal to go back to 1996 and hear Character Zero for the first time.



Hey, boys. Thanks for all the Phish.

In my mind, I'm goin' to Carolina ...

Can't you see the sunshine
Can't you just feel the moonshine
Maybe just like a friend of mine
It hit me from behind
Yes I'm goin' to Carolina in my mind



Lemme tell you some things I love about America.

I love huge, wide sidewalks. Swipes of concrete where you can walk without stumbling over someone's garbage bins, or their car straddling the kerb, or the ubiquitous pile of little French dog caca, or that never-graceful dance of confusion with passersby, where you try to figure out who has the right of way.

I love 24-hour supermarkets and gas stations and convenience stores and boites de nuit and always something to do, someone to talk to, someone to call. The ability to banter at the bank, the market, the shop on the corner.


I love houses that aren't beige, roofs that aren't the same red tile.

I love many faces, many voices, many languages on the same street. The French all look the same. The same bodies, the same trends, the same pointy-toed eagle talon boots and faux-fur trimmed vests. The same silver-and-black striped shirts, and so many buckles on everything that they could be Pilgrims.

Here I walk down Mission Street past Mexican men with slicked-back hair, black puffy jackets, and Adidas polished too-white peeking from the cuffs of their extravagantly baggy jeans.


Internet that works nearly all the time, and very, very fast.

Cheap cell phone minutes.

California wine.

Avocados, 4 for $1. Limes, 10 for $1.

American greenbacks.

Strong black coffee in those heavy white diner mugs, on a chipped formica or peeling woodgrain table, in a vinyl-covered booth at half-past midnight.

Pizza with tomato sauce and without creme fraiche. Or lardons.

American microwbrews. Fuck, American brews, whatever they are.

Large pillows, large towels, thick mattresses, hot showers, dryers (for clothes and for hair), comfortable socks, Christmas lights, fog around Sutro Tower.

The American Postal Service, bless them.

Grey's Anatomy.

The Sunday Times.

Gingerbread houses.

Knowing the correct usage of punctuation.

Knowing how much my cash is actually worth.

American coffee. American coffee. American coffee. American coffee. American coffee.

The Food Network.

Graduate school.

Secondhand bookstores.

Refills.


Dark and silent last night
I think I might have heard the highway calling
Geese in flight and dogs that bite
Signs that might be omens say I'm going, going
I'm goin' to Carolina in my mind


People who have travelled and come back and gone away again.

The ability to leave, and have a place to come home to.

My own apartment.

My friends, who, much to my surprise and pleasure, missed me.


With a holy host of others standing round me
Still I'm on the dark side of the moon
And it seems like it goes on like this forever
You must forgive me
If I'm up and gone to Carolina in my mind


Hey guys - I finally had that cup of coffee, in the paper cup with the little sleeve and the plastic lid with that frustrating little hole through which to scald your tongue. I drank it walking down the street, while talking on my cell phone.

I'm going to the movies, where the previews are too long but not as long as the half-hour French ones, and where the popcorn comes with extra butter and isn't sweet. Then I'm going to eat Chinese food in the middle of the night, out of the paper cartons and with those wooden chopsticks that you break apart and then rub the ends together to smooth out the splinters.

I'm going to a brewery, to hear bluegrass and drink real beer. I'm ordering a hamburger. A big one. With melted yellow cheddar cheese. And fries, not frites, that will come beside my sandwich instead of in the middle of it. And ketchup that doesn't taste like that tomato sauce that comes in the toothpaste-tube things at the Casino.

I'm still waiting for my first diet Mountain Dew.

Tomorrow, I get to see my father, who's brining a turkey because my family kept Christmas on hold til I could be there. I'm going to eat my grandmother's sweet potato casserole, and the cornbread dressing she makes completely from scratch, and her grapefruit and avocado salad, and that quintessentially Southern truc with the apples and bananas and walnuts and celery and mayonnaise. And three kinds of pie. And iced tea, even in December. And I'll pour gravy over all of it, and leave my squashy buttered dinner roll on the plate the whole time.

It's a beautiful thing.


Say nice things about me 'cause I'm gone,
Southbound
You'll have to carry on without me
'cause I'm gone, I'm gone
I'm gone to Carolina in my mind

For those who have aussi been forced to traduire les paroles de Georges Bressons

For my SIT cohort: Vous me manquez, deja.

There are so many, many things about the time we spent in France that I won't ever be able to explain to anyone else.

You are the thing I miss most about France; the people who understand my awe and terror of Leila (Ghregh??), who were likewise trapped for a semester in salles trois, quatre, and tres, and who likewise learned which ordinateurs dans la salle informatique were the least unacceptable (including the one you had to beat on to make it work properly, selon the directions ecrit on the petit panneau).

We loved Eric and loathed the Atelier d'Expression; we suffered ensemble through brebis and Aveyron and Ariege and torrential rains and beaucoup trop many tours.

We answered the question "What *surprises* you about France?" for the 200th time with smiles and without flogging anyone to death.

We parl-ed in constant Franglish (and sometimes even Frangleshpanol).

We discovered the English books and American TV shows a la Mediatheque, and we escaped from all those Algerian/Tunisian/Moroccan/"French"men without too much incident, eh?

We introduced Paris to the Car Bomb.

We outed Greg and Laura.

We learned what happens when you put unleaded fuel in a diesel engine.

We cartooned our teachers.

We know which one of us speaks the slowest, whose voices are so soft you can't hear them on the telephone, who has to preface all her interactions with French people with a long self-deprecatory preamble, who absolutely cannot speak in public, who doesn't like space, who touches everyone's hair, who makes the most derisive faces.

Who *always* has to talk with her hands. :)

Without Sam, who was there for the Thierry debacle from the beginning and who knew but didn't judge about the girl from the Lolita Cafe whose calls I quit returning, I never would have shared l'Ancienne Belgique, or eaten the best Tibetan meal of my life in St. Germain. I want to retire to your sheep farm, in Scotland, New Zealand, the San Juan Islands ...

Without Marissa and Greg, I never would've known for sure that no man is sorry that he'll never carry a baby, or that someone can love both Tom Waits and cute puppies with the same fervor, or had someone to smoke, drink gin and tonic and talk dirty with, or learned the merits of loose-leaf Gauloise, or played pool beside the Mediterranean.

Without Tricia, no one would have understood why Joey was NOT SPEAKING FRENCH! or the debate over the meaning of San Diego, or the only way to bag a classy lady (take her to the gun show ... and see if she likes the goods), or why I spent a French semester in a glass case of emotion. Or the deep significance of "America - fuck yeah!" and "Qu'est-ce que c'est haut, chien?"

Without Matt, I'd never have learned the difference between porn and "erotic films," or been able to meaningfully discuss the degustation of fried chicken, biscuits, and macaroni and cheese, or the joy of leaving your bread on the plate with your food.

Without Rebecca, no one would have answered my English with French, and there would be no one to carry on my Santiago de Compostela legacy. (I'm counting on you, girl.)

Without Ellen, who should absolutely NOT become an RA, I'd never have given a shit about caves or ultimate frisbee, or quaked in fear merely at someone's scowl, or learned to avoid Maison Pillon, or discovered the infinite variations possible for "Eeewww."

Without Laura, there'd have been no one's love life about which to speculate, and I never would have met the only girl who could make ice interesting, and whose patience will surely one day merit canonization. Keep that one in line - I know you will. Will you invite me to the wedding if I give you guys an ice pick and a pair of giant tongs?

Without Abi, I'd never have eaten the closest approximation of real Mexican food France has ever seen, or listened to three different versions of Romeo and Juliet in succession, or been able to replace the birthday song with Estas son las mañanitas. (Gracias para siempre.)


Without Brittany, I'd have had no pirates in France, no fellow Boulder, no one who was sick more than I was, no stories of Enrique, no one with whom to faire le bis back in Colorado. "Malheureusement, j'ai casse mon parapluie dans l'Aveyron! Et toi, tu as casse le tien, aussi, je crois. Il y avait beacoup trop du vente! Et Greg aussi, il a perdu le sien quand meme. Il faut accheter un autre, a cause de la pluie, sinon on va etre trop mouiller!" (I wanna say something. I'm gonna put it out there; if you like it, you can take it, if you don't, send it right back ... I want to be on you.)

There aren't any words for you, Julie, my Berkeley copine. Thanks for being at St Bertrand de Comminges that day, for watching the hours of montages, for laughing at Pink and Christina Aguilera, for eating raclette, for loving Ani and Orishas and Alicia Alonso, for knowing Dar Williams and Mollie Katzen, for telling me about Cuba and helping me decide about Africa, for that day at the library. For being the other Californian, the other dancer, the other American in the French host family milieu. Cheeseboard, Lovejoy's, the Ferry Building Farmer's Market, Cowgirl Creamery, Point Reyes, burritos in the Mission, Big Sur await. Come to Boulder and I'll introduce you to the snow.

Vooooiiillaaa. Tout a fait.

Ai, ai, ai.

Si vous n'existeriez pas, dites-moi comment I would have made it through the past four months. Moi, je n'ai aucune idee. Quand je suis arrivee en France, I would not have believed how much you all would mean to me. Mais, vraiment. *Vachement.*

A bientot, kids, et je vous remercie pour tous les fromages.

What sets worlds in motion is the interplay of differences, their attractions and repulsions.

Life is plurality, death is uniformity.

By suppressing differences and pecularities, by eliminating different civilizations and cultures, progress weakens life and favors death.

The ideal of a single civilization for everyone, implicit in the cult of progress and technique, impoverishes and mutilates us.

Every view of the world that becomes extinct, every culture that disappears, diminishes a possibility of life.

- Octavio Paz

I do not want my house to be walled in on all sides and my windows to be stuffed. I want the cultures of all the lands to be blown about my house ...

... as freely as possible. But I refuse to be blown off my feet by any. - Gandhi

For this project, I interviewed three French people, an American, and an Englishwoman. Perhaps the most interesting part of the project for me was to observe the differences in their attitudes towards the hardships of the Camino. The three French people were much more interested in the social aspects of the pilgrimage, and the two who hiked on the Camino Frances in Spain were not satisfied at all with the Spanish part of their pilgrimage. Everyone told me that the pilgrimage in Spain is completely different from the pilgrimage in France. The three French people, truly, seemed far less willing to adapt themselves to different habits and attitudes. But, paradoxically, they were more interested in the community of the pilgrimage than the other two. The American had chosen to make the pilgrimage at a time when he was less likely to encounter other pilgrims, and the Englishwoman had not wanted companionship, either. And, she seemed farmore affected by the pilgrimage than the French and described more profound personal changes.

These attitudes towards the Camino illustrated, to me, the profound French need to separate religious life from secular life. The Chemin de St Jacques de Compostelle is no longer publicized by the church but rather by organizations like the Society of Friends of the Way of St James, who work voluntarily to increase awareness of and interest in the Chemin. (Although, interestingly enough, judges in Spain have been known to assign the Camino de Santiago in lieu of jailtime for certain petty crimes. Once again, the Spanish take the Camino de Santiago much more seriously.)

The road itself is part of the network of hiking trails that run through France. The various churches and shrines along the way are less holy sites than historical sites. Even the profoundly Catholic Monique needed to claim the religious artifacts on the Chemin as part of the patrimony, her historical heritage as French. It seems important that French interest in the Chemin increased greatly after it became a UNESCO historical site, as if it had become somehow more acceptable to make the pilgrimage as a historical or patrimonial experience rather than a religious quest.

However, despite the obvious differences, it is in some ways difficult to say that the pilgrim of today is vastly different from the pilgrim of the Middle Ages. The difference between a "pilgrim" and a "tourist" is necessarily somewhat obscure. Both leave their homes because they have a need. There are things they want to see, places to which they feel compelled to go. Whether these needs are motivated by God or by some inner personal call seems a semantic distinction. (However, this distinction was more necessary for the French pilgrims than for the others.)

It is also interesting to note that American pilgrims, in particular, talk about the feelings of depression and despondency that often happen when the pilgrim returns home. Pilgrim guidebooks and websites offer suggestions for working through the unhappiness when the pilgrim must return to his normal life. When I mentioned this to Monique, she was surprised that anyone would feel sad to finish the pilgrimage.
When I asked Anne why she thought that people chose to make the pilgrimage, she told me that "Each pilgrim is individually called by the Camino. The Way chooses us, as it has for centuries. We do not make that choice. And it is up to us today, as it was for pilgrims in the Middle Ages, to discover the reason for the call – now, as we walk the Chemin, or later, after we have returned home."

Prayer does not change God ...

... but it changes him who prays. - Soren Kierkegaard

The mother of my host mother introduced me to another former pilgrim, an Englishwoman who has lived in the tiny village of Mann for 12 years and who barely speaks a word of French. She made the pilgrimage to Compostela 8 years ago, after her husband died, and she would like to make it again during a Jubilee Year, when the Feast of St James falls on a Sunday.

Anne told me that she started her pilgrimage without any set idea of how to conduct herself. Like many pilgrims, she wanted to be open and to allow circumstances and surroundings dictate her choices. Although she is not Catholic, she said that she began to attend Mass whenever she could along the way. At each pilgrim mass along the Chemin, the priest reads the name and nationality of each pilgrim. She spent long hours in contemplation and prayer, and each religious symbol she saw infused her with a sense of the holy.

However, it was not only the churches and religious relics that had this power, for Anne. She said that the people she met, the different paths she walked, the sun, the rain, the trees, the natural world, all seemed holy to her. She said that she had begun the Chemin very angry, and that she needed the struggle of the pilgrimage to become humble.
Anne noticed that people began to wave at her as she passed along the road. « At first I wondered why », she said. « Then I realized that I wasn't a tourist, not even a stranger. I had been walking through their village for centuries, because I was a pilgrim. »
And she told me that, slowly, she began to see like a pilgrim. To see that everywhere she looked, in even the smallest town, there was not just a church, but a cathedral, a beautiful ornate structure that had taken generations to build. A father had laid the foundation, his son and his son's son had built the walls, and their children had put on the roof. Anne was struck by the power that emanated from these works of art, shrines built with love and dedication and belief. She told me that the best pilgrims learned how to travel light, help other pilgrims and not damage or hurt anything along the way.
I asked her what she had taken away from the pilgrimage, and she told me that she had rediscovered her joy and gratitude at being alive. She said that the hospitality of the pilgrim way produced a warm feeling of goodwill.

Once upon a time there was an old country, wrapped up in habit and caution

... We have to transform our old France into a new country and marry it to its time. - Charles de Gaulle

I spoke with a couple close to seventy years old, both doctors, who had made the pilgrimage together 4 years ago. They repeated many of the things that Janine had told me, and they said that the best thing about the Chemin was stopping at a gite or albergue and meeting the same people you started out with on the first day of hiking. Monique, who talked much more than her husband, told me a lot about the history of the Chemin, much of which I knew already, but it was interesting to observe how much the connection to history affected her. She is also a devout Catholic, and she was very moved not only by the many religious shrines along the Chemin but also, for example, by walking along the same road as Charlemagne and Roland had used in their fight against the Moors. It was very impressive for me to hear Monique and her husband describe historical events as though they had occurred yesterday. While Monique was telling me about the people from different countries they had met on the Chemin, her husband interrupted to tell me that he liked people from all countries, everywhere, except the English. He detested the English. When I asked him why, he leaned forward and looked at me very seriously. He said, very slowly, “Because the English, they burned Joan of Arc.”

Monique remembered a man who had started out from his home in the Netherlands; when they met him, he had already walked 1 000 kilometers. They also walked with people from Canada, Italy, Holland, Brazil, Germany, Sweden, Austria, and Australia. They still keep in contact with some of their friends from the pilgrimage. They also told me that most of the people who make the pilgrimage are more than 50 years old. One Canadian pilgrim celebrated his 70th birthday in Santiago, and there was a couple who had 80 years making the pilgrimage, also.

They both complained bitterly about the rhythm of the Spanish day. A typical day has you loading your pack at 6 in the morning and beginning the trail while it is still dark. Rest stops occur midmorning, wherever you can fill your water bottle and buy a cup of coffee or a sandwich. After the midmorning break, you walk for the rest of the day, stopping for brief rests, for lunch, or to take care of your feet. It took about 8 hours to reach the next village, meaning that they usually arrived in a village at the moment when the entire village shut down for siesta, and it was necessary to wait several hours to buy food and water for the next day. They were also frustrated because the Spanish, habitually, do not dine until 10 o’clock at night. But they discovered many restaurants that offered a special Menu de Peregrino starting at 8 o’clock, and by 10 they could be in bed with their earplugs.

When I asked Monique what people looked for on the Chemin, she said that she thought we all seek something at some time in our lives, even if it is just a new awareness or perspective on life. Sometimes we do not even know what it is we seek.

Bendición de la Escarcela o Morral

No sin razón los que vienen a visitar a los santos reciben en la iglesia el morral bendito. Pues cuando los enviamos con motivo de hacer penitencia al santuario de los santos, les damos un morral bendito, según el rito eclesiástico, diciéndoles:

En nombre de nuestro Señor Jesucristo, recibe este morral hábito de tu peregrinación, para que castigado y enmendado te apresures en llegar a los pies de Santiago, a donde ansías llegar, y para que después de haber hecho el viaje vuelvas al lado nuestro con gozo, con la ayuda de Dios, que vive y reina por los siglos de los siglos.
Amén

Bendición del Bordón o Báculo

No sin razón los que vienen a visitar a los santos reciben en la iglesia el báculo y el morral bendito. Pues cuando los enviamos con motivo de hacer penitencia al santuario de los santos, les damos el báculo, según el rito eclesiástico, diciéndoles:

Recibe este báculo que sea como sustento de la marcha y del trabajo, para el camino de tu peregrinación, para que puedas vencer las catervas del enemigo y llegar seguro a los pies de Santiago, y después de hecho el viaje, volver junto a nos con alegría, con la anuencia del mismo Dios, que vive y reina por los siglos de los siglos.
Amén

Sobre el Camino de Santiago y sus peregrinos:

Todos, pues han de venerar a Santiago en todas partes, el cual socorre sin demora en todos los lugares a los que a él acuden.... Ahora vamos a tratar del camino de los peregrinos.
El camino de peregrinación es cosa muy buena, pero es estrecho. Pues es estrecho el camino que conduce al hombre a la vida; en cambio, ancho y espacioso el que conduce a la muerte. El camino de peregrinación es para los buenos: carencia de vicios, mortificación del cuerpo, aumento de las virtudes, perdón de los pecados, penitencia de los penitentes, camino de los justos, amor de los santos, fe en la resurrección y premio de los bienaventurados, alejamiento del infierno, protección de los cielos. Aleja de los suculentos manjares, hace desaparecer la voraz obesidad, refrena la voluptuosidad, contiene los apetitos de la carne que luchan contra la fortaleza del alma, purifica el espíritu, invita al hombre a la vida contemplativa, humilla a los altos, enaltece a los humildes, ama la pobreza. Odia el censo de aquel a quien domina la avaricia; en cambio del que lo distirbuye entre los pobres, lo ama. Premia a los austeros y que obran bien; en cambio, a los avaros y pecadores no los arranca de las garras del pecado.
Moralejo, S., C. Torres, y J. Feo. Liber Sancti Jacobi; Codex Calixtinus. Santiago de Compostela, 1951

There are days when solitude is a heady wine that intoxicates you with freedom, others when it is a bitter tonic ...

... and still others when it is a poison that makes you beat your head against the wall. - Colette

Today I interviewed not a former pilgrim but an expectant pilgrim, an American guy named Nate who’d come to Toulouse to faire the Chemin d’Arles, and had come now because he wanted to make the pilgrimage in the winter. I met him for breakfast; two days here and he’d somehow found what must be the only place in Toulouse that serves something that approximates pancakes. Alright, they’re crepes, but at least he didn’t eat them with Nutella. (Although, sadly, no real coffee. I had three “cafes,” which means espresso that gets cold unless you swallow the whole thing in one shot.) When I spoke to him on the phone, I formed certain expectations from his gravelly Robert-Redford-in-Out-of-Africa voice. He didn’t disappoint – I walked into the café to find a ginger-bearded giant in a flannel shirt. I kept looking for Babe the Blue Ox, or for him to call out for rashers of bacon.

He’s already made several ‘pilgrimages’, if you will. He’s done the Appalachian Trail twice, as a thruhiker, which means that he started in Georgia and ended up, six months plus tard, in Maine. And last summer he went to Peru (which, incidentally, seems to be the place to go these days; I’ve met so many people who have recently visited there. Trendwatchers, take note.) to hike the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu.

It’s interesting for me to note the differences between the French pilgrims I interview and those of other nationalities. Without exception, all of the French with whom I have spoken have focused on the communal aspects of the pilgrimage, and Nate came to France with the exact opposite interest. He was enjoying the food here in Toulouse, although I had to agree with him that once you’ve seen a hundred old churches, they begin to lose some of their romance. (Actually, for me, it was all over once I had seen Notre Dame in Paris.) When we spoke, he had already visisted St Sernin and discovered the Rue du Taur, which is named the Street of the Bull because St Sernin, the first bishop of Toulouse, was martyred by being dragged along this street behind a bull. Just a cultural note.

Nate decided to begin the Camino de Santiago in France so that he could cross the Pyrenees, and he chose the Chemin d’Arles rather than the far more popular Chemin du Puy because he wanted a more authentic pilgrim experience. ‘I didn’t come to make a lot of friends,’ he told me, ‘I could do that in Colorado.’ He said that he wanted both the challenge and the solitude of a winter pilgrimage. Nate’s description of his desires for his pilgrimage was, interestingly, quite similar to Janine’s description of “religious pilgrims”: he wanted the chance to meditate and reflect on and absorb his surroundings and his experience without the distraction of many other hikers, although he would not have called that prayer.

He said he was surprised by the number of people he had talked to who made the same two observations: 'You will earn a lot of merit by doing the Camino in winter' and 'you ought to do it in summer, it's better'. Ensuing conversation revealed that 'merit' resulted from increasing the hardship of what was seen to be an already very arduous undertaking by doing it in cold and possibly inclement weather. 'Better', on the other hand, was usually equated with 'warmer', though it could also mean that there would be more pilgrims on the Chemin. (The idea that he might in fact enjoy the silence all around him was apparently difficult to imagine.) Suitably clad and equipped, however, and taking certain sensible precautions, the only major drawback to a winter journey, according to Nate, is that the days are far too short.

With a drastically reduced amount of daylight you need to be considerably more organized than you might be in summer, not only with respect to places of interest, but also so as not to be caught in the dark with nowhere to sleep. Especially in winter, and especially on the Chemin d’Arles, it is necessary to be certain that you will arrive at the place where you will sleep before night. Gites in France offer low-cost lodging to hikers on the GR65. They are owned by individuals, churches, or municipalities, and the quality of the facilities varies widely. Many have cooking facilities, and all have showers (although not necessarily hot water) and toilets. Whereas in Spain it is necessary to show the pilgrim’s passport in order to obtain lodging at an albergue or refugio, anyone is free to use the French gites. However, the gites do not appear as frequently on the trail as the refugios, and because they are open to all, they can be more crowded.

As far as attitudes towards solitude go, it’s also worth noting that the people who come from other countries to make the pilgrimage in France are usually choosing to hike for days or weeks in a country whose language they do not speak. Nate is a good example of this; although he speaks a certain amount of Spanish, he speaks almost no French, and has been surprised by how few people here speak English. However, a willingness to undertake this sort of journey even knowing that your opportunities not only for conversation but also for basic aid will of necessity be limited by your inability to communicate indicates a certain personal bent, and one that is perhaps less intimidated by solitude.

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. - Henry David Thoreau