p o n t a r l i e r - j o u n g e

“Walk on with hope in your heart, and you’ll never walk alone” - Rodgers and Hammerstein

At the hostel in Ponterlier, I realized I had to choose to cross to Switzerland today or stay in France one more night and cross tomorrow.

I suddenly felt unsure. Somewhere along the line in France I had developed a way of doing things that seemed to work: start walking and let things fall into place. Would it be any different in Switzerland? 

I tried something that on in my trip had abandoned: looking to google for an answer.  

It didn’t work well. Not because Google isn’t a great tool, but the question of which way to go from here can’t yet be input.

When the sun came up, there was nothing to do but go outside. On a Sunday, the tourist office was closed, so I just walked for a few minutes amid the street market, refilled my water bottle at an open cafe, and let my compass point me Southeast. 

I followed a sign towards Lausanne, and soon fouand Via Francigena markings along the bike path to take me to the trail.

I hiked up a wide path in the bright sun to a lookout point.

I walked along the walls of an old fortress. 

I looked out to the mountains, an old castle, over a village, at the high speed trains cutting through it all. 

I looked up close at a butterfly with a cracked wing, crawling with its caterpillar body across the path. I sat down and tried to help it out of the road. I was frightened when it flew in frantic little spurts and jerked away myself in instinct. I didn’t fully feel it at the time, but I sprained my own glute muscle this way.

I walked through a town called La Cluse-te-Mijoux and an very good-looking person refilled my water bottle. Or I don’t know,  maybe I was just thirsty. 

I hiked up a hill to a little chapel with rows and rows of bikes outside. People standing outside and talking, children playing, car doors opening and closing, picnic baskets and baguettes carried in twos.

I walked back into the woods. I kept taking pictures of the red and white trail markings everywhere, better than castles and so valuable to showing me the way. 

One part of the path along a fence was narrow and overgrown. I tried to step carefully but couldn’t avoid all the plant life. 

I remember walking through fields of wheat and corn thinking how silent they were, how hard it was to see the life in rows of cornstalks. But those were domesticated plants! Here were wild plants- assertive, aggressively growing into the path with serrorated edges and thorns and leaves that stung my skin instantly. I walked carefully and looked closely at the leaves that stung so I could avoid them. 

I found my way through mud and fallen trees.  

When I came to fields sometimes I couldn’t see the red and white flags,  so I just opened the jaws of barbed wire and continued forward until I did. 

At the end of one of field, I finally saw some red amid the green and trees.

It wasn’t a sign though, it was a woman in a pink shirt. She was sitting with one or two others on a mossy fallen tree making a picnic. 

I said hello, looking for a point in the right direction. Better than that, she showed me her trail maps, introuduced me to her friends, and we all sat and had coffee, right in the middle of the woods! 

Aren’t you scared to be all alone? They asked me, and I said what I felt, which was, I am not alone right now! 

They invited me to walk along the rest of the trail to the town with them, and I was happy to! They pointed out the hazelnut trees and grassy ski slopes. A layer of sunburn and self-doubt had peeled off from yesterday, and I could speak french with them to communicate and understand some simple ideas!

Nutella doesn’t really have hazelnuts, fondu is a good way to put on weight, the cuisine in New York is very eclectic! 

When we came to the small town, some clouds began to cover the sun. I looked into the dark woods with more trepidation at the thought of starting out alone again. I still hasn’t sorted out where I was staying for the night, so when they offered to take me to the open tourist office, I gratefully accepted. 

I’ve opened more car doors than I ever expected to on this pilgrimage by foot, but I’ve also slowly began to let go of the idea that this is some kind of ultra-ultra-marathon where taking help that’s offered invalidates the whole experience.

It is what it is. I step out in faith every morning, learn something, and try to make it somewhere like home before dark. Sometimes this happens after a day of pushing it to the absolute limit, sometimes at 4pm after a nice morning hike and picnic.

And so it was something very amazing that happened. Even though all the usual places- the tourist offices, the hotel receptions, Google- that I ask my questions like -where will I stay tonight? where is best to cross the Swiss border on foot with my American passport? gave no answer that Sunday, the beautiful people I met right there in the middle of the woods helped me find all this.

Then took me from a closed tourist office to an open tourist office then to search at two hotels and then to my final place of Jounge just before the Swiss border. At last, we found a lovely gîte where the collage of photos on the wall confirmed the owners could be my grandparents. I was stumped as to how to connect to the WiFi there, and almost gave up when I couldn’t work it out myself, thinking I had the best shot out of anyone at the house. I didnt, it was Madame Godart who had the solution. She got on the on the landline, called her tech savvy neighbor, and occupied his adorable toddler with a madeline cookie while he turned on the WiFi button on the router box.

And since you’re reading this, I guess you already have figured out things couldn’t have worked out any better. 

— p o n t a r l i e r

 “So I got busy on a very interesting project. That was, to live all the good things I believed in” - Mildred Norman

 •••

Today saw almost 30km on the road to come to Pontarlier.

I began the day early, and with a companion for the first 5km of trails, my host Solange in Vuillafans!

She showed me about reading trail markings and led the way to Lods. 

When we reached the church it was exactly 5km, and we said goodbye so she could walk back and I could continue forward.

I hiked the trails to the next town she pointed out, Mouthiers. 

Upon, exiting Mouthiers, soon found myself walking on an unwalkable road. I had no outlets for about 3km, so I just focused, thanked God today my sneakers had traction, and sang The Rolling Stones to myself; “look at that stupid gir- irl”.

Eventually, I saw a big Saturday hiking group who had stopped at the edge of the trail. They let me follow them through the woods to where they had parked their car.

There was some communication barrier with the ladies. I was having a hard time speaking French. My confidence was shaken from picking my way along the wrong road and the sunburn on my lips is peeling.

They didn’t understand why I would spend the rest of the day walking a hot road when they would drive to the same place in 20 minutes. In the end, I found the words to say thank you, I’ll be okay, and continue on. As they drove past me on the road I broke into a little run, not because I could keep that pace for very long, just to show I would be OK now they had helped me find the road. 

And it really was OK. The road was straight, long and hot, but it got me there, and with food and water.

From a mile away I saw a big cheese wheel sign for a place that looked promising. I realized when I left it was the French answer to the Cracker Barrel restaurants we have in the US. Full of kitsch for sale, huge portions, but of course, better quality cheese. They even sold cow bells like the ones I had begun hearing everywhere in this part of the country. Every cow wears one and you can hear the music they make from far away.

After that nice respite I made it the rest of the 8km to Pontarlier with no problem.  

The trails are more scenic, but even the more industrial road leading into the city showed me something wonderful, two gray baby swans following their parents under a bridge. 

I arrived in the city at a beautiful moment after the World Cup match between France and Argentina. On this part of the road, even  cars driving by and honking their horns were magic.

— v u i l l a f a n s

“When the rhythm changes, so does the dance” - African Proverb 

 •••

I woke up early yesteday, had breakfast, and walked around the city of Besançon like I had nowhere to be.

I walked around an outdoor market.

I noticed new details I had missed looking around at sunset.

I walked up the river. 

Past people walking their dogs, learning to parallel park, architecture, cars and boats. 

(Facing North towards the city of Besançon)

(Facing south towards Lausanne) 

I replaced my trail shoes at a helpful running store and stocked up on electrolyte tablets. 

I ran up to find panoramic views of the city, the citadel, and birds.  

I shared the trail with a horse and his rider. 

The trail emptied and I found my way with the a road map through some small towns.  

After 15km running, I was struggling in the hot sun. A girl named Kelly pulls over, hikes down the road to meet me, and offers to take me down the road. She just received her diploma to become a special education teacher so we celebrate!

I walk across a little bridge to find the accueil de pèlerin in Vuillafans where I am staying for the night.  

They are surprised I am far earlier than the 10pm estimated arrival time given this morning, but welcome me with lemonade and cookies in their backyard. I have time to wash my clothes. 

I take a nap and then have dinner with Solange. She has done the Camino in Spain and will do the Via Francigena with her husband later this year.

She says « On marche avec la tête ». I agree. 

g y - b e s a n ç o n

“The world has not to be put in order: the world is order incarnate. It is for us to put ourselves in unison with this order.”

Henry Miller

 •••

The day began over breakfast then seeing off the Belgian pair I shared a gîte with. They held the distinction of being one of the only couples to go on the trail one by foot, one by bike.

Something that Rita, the walking half of the couple, said at breakfast would change my course.

“Oh, no, no, for the bag; 8 kilos maximum”

I had estimated this number to be much higher. I was stubbornly holding on to too much and waiting to get stronger.  But I noticed by the last 5 km everyday, my backpack felt almost unbearable. I really  didn’t know what inside I was arching, hunching, hiking up, to support all time, but after breakfast, I went back to my room to find out.

It took much of the morning, but I ended up making a neat bag of clothes to drop in the collection bin. I set off to the city feeling light and new.

From the city’s tourist office, I received instructions to eschew the marked Via Francigena path for the yellow trail markers that could also take me to Besançon. I was wildly entertained by the thought of following the yellow brick road to my destination.

The solitude of the woods brought self awareness. First of all, I don’t know nearly all the words to the Bruce Springsteen song “Atlantic City” like I thought I did. I ate my lunch when I felt lost and before I felt hungry. My calf muscle felt strained when I mulled over conflict but felt better when I walked on.

I finally settled into the wide path and began talking out loud, just noise, about what was on my mind. It was like taking an aspirin.

Then I thanked out loud every person again who had helped me on my way; the people who were just doing their jobs, the people who filled my water bottle from a garden hose. All this into the wind. 

I felt a lot of energy to walk on in the shade of the trees, with a lighter backpack and many good thoughts. I finished an audiobook; Principles by Ray Dalio. 

I was in fine shape by the time I reached the town of Pin, but it was about 5 or 6 PM and the hotel/restaurant sign indicated it might be a good place to stop after 25km.

I learned the hotel had closed, but the woman behind the bar very kindly offered me a drink,

“Cadeaux, Cadeaux” 

So I enjoyed an ice tea there and watching music videos with her, taking down the names of French rappers as the picture cut in and out of the television. The wind was interfering with the reception.  

I didn’t know what would come next. Somehow, after walking 25 km of trail I was still 20km away from Besançon. 

The woman stuck her thumb out at me. “Pas dangeroux ici, eh” she said. This worried me. But I couldn’t worry, I could just walk outside with my eyes open.

The first thing I saw was a new silver taxi with its lights on going down the other side of the road. My New York instinct took over and I lept to flag it down on the other side of the road. The driver pulled to the side to wait. 

“A Besançon? C’est possible? Le prix?” I asked.

The driver was just about done for the day, but counter-offered to take me to the edge of the city. I buckled up and again said a prayer of thanks for people that help me, even if they’re just doing their job. In the end, he waved off the price on the meter, and   pointed me to the city about 5km away.

It still took me almost all of the daylight left to walk to the centreville, but I was checked into a clean, quiet room by the time I walked out to see the sun set over the city.

d a m p i e r r e - g y

If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.

- Henry David Thoreau

Yesterday saw 43,000 steps from Dampierre-Sur-Salon to Gy. I look at the map now, of all the towns this road passed through. I made the list to tick them off on my way to Gy, but I now I  realize every little town was a destination. 

Savoyeaux

I asked to refill my water bottle in the first village headed south. That’s how I met Frederique, a kind woman who seemed interested in the pilgramage. I shared with her all I had - the link to my blog! She shared with me that right next to her house was a photo-worthy spot, a castle where she would take my picture! Le Savoyeaux Chateau.  I continued down the path with “Savoy Truffle” stuck in my head. 

Motey-Sur-Saone

I continued and crossed the bridge into Motey-Sur-Saone. I pasued to eat some fruit and rinsed my hands in the water of the Saone river.

I entered the woods of Saint Reine, and sat on a neat pile of wood to smell the pine in the air.  I began reading signs for the Cathedral in Igny, the next town down the road.

Igny

I found the cathedral in the town center and looked inside to see it was a sky blue and white and gold sanctuary built in 1920 like I hadn’t seen before.

Aigney

I hitched a ride 2km with a two seater hay tractor. I learned from the farmer that there was a John Deere tractor factory 10km away.

Citey  

Almost into Gy, I meet a group of friendly goats who pose for pictures.

Gy

I arrive at my destination and walk up the hill to find the tourist office. The door is locked, but I pause outside to use the WiFi! After five minutes lost in my phone screen,  a woman comes by the office. She says, are you looking for a hotel? They are all booked, but follow me. She unlocks the door to the tourism office, stamps my pilgramage crudential and makes a phone call. She smiles and lets me know she found a place and drops me at the gite of her friend, Claudine, who like me, communicates in English and photography, as evident in the camera hanging from her neck! She shows me to a very welcoming room and introuduces me to the other guests; a retired Flemish and English speaking Belgian couple.  

At 7PM, Claudine takes us all for a tour of the place, the gite where we are staying. On the property is  a small musuem with artifacts of the former Le Charmeur cheese factory owned by her Father, animals, a beautiful river, and her house where we share dinner.

a souvenir torn from the last roll of gold paper used to package the cheese

labels taken from the factory demolition to Claudine’s Lavender garden by the wind

cheese ration stamps from WWII

Bella

We share dinner and afterwards, Claudine shows me her photos from her daughter’s wedding last week. There are many beautiful pictures, but a the bride hiking her white dress to pas through the narrow opening of a barbed wire fence on the farm is a highlight. Claudine assures me the dress was not harmed in the moment. 

At the end of dinner, Claudine asks what we would like for breakfast- coffee, tea, hot chocolate, bread, nutella. I make a special request for eggs. Claudine says she used the eggs all the eggs she had has cooking dinner, but if I am lucky the chickens will make a new one for my breakfast. 

••• 

l e f f o n d - d a m p i e r r e

 “There are three ways to ultimate success.

The first way is to be kind.

The second way is to be kind.

The third way is to be kind. “

Mr. Rogers

-

Yesterday saw a beautiful morning in Leffond, where I happily met many animals at the Moulin de La Paperterie before walking on, first to Champlittle, then to Dampierre Sur Salon, where I am now.

The Via Francigena organization is very strong in Champlittle, and it was a delight to walk through the Centreville and find many pilgrim symbols on the streets and in shop windows.

I stopped by the campsite in town to refill my water bottle and signed the guestbook, the owners there were a enthusiastic part of the Via Francigena too!

I booked another pilgrim accommodation through the tourist office, ate a simple lunch from the supermarket, and headed for the next town, 18km away. The day was late, and the sun was hot.

I carried 2 liters of water and drank in the lunch hour.

Since first starting out, when I struggled to drink enough water, I found being bold about asking to refill my bottle or find a bathroom even in towns with no cafe or bar, has made all the difference. More often than not, someone sitting on their porch or tending to their garden can help with something simple and will.

Those small kindnesses save me days off feeling ill and the discomfort of starting the day with a headache because I did not drink enough walking.

I feel shy about asking people, but I need water, so as my Grandmother’s sister once told me-

“God gave me a mouth and I use it”

In this case, I also met Madeline and Michel in Achey. I sympathized with the symptoms of achey legs when Madeline got up to help me with my empty bottle, and I appreciated so much the care she took to rinse my coke bottle, and run the water cold.

“It’s very fresh” she assured me with a smile when she came back.

I thanked her sincerely and walked around the corner, the wrong direction, and then back. I waved a second time and headed on my way. Such a small thing but hugely refreshing.

I found a bush of wild raspberries a little bit further down the road. I ate them one by one as I hadn’t done since I was a child.

The road stretches on and on, but the day was getting cooler, and there was nothing to do but walk.

I stepped into a church for the dark shade.

I started singing to pass the time, any happy song I knew the words to, and eventually reached the industrial edge of Dampierre Sur Salon.

I walked to the centreville, 2km when I felt I couldn’t take another step. I asked for directions and walked half the distance back to find the pilgrim place. It was closed. I had arrived two hours late. I walked back to town and found the hotel. It was a massive glass building for a huge town, but this town was quiet.  Although it appeared closed at first, the reception was indeed in the attached restaurant, so I headed there.

Two other pilgrims I knew, Cor from the Netherlands I had recently caught up with in Langres, and Steve whose family I had hitched a ride with to Arras, came up behind me, they had already checked in and finished dinner.

I had just arrived, almost faint from the sun that day, so I sat down for an hour or so and chatted with a friendly Dutch woman from Amsterdam.

“Aren’t you scared?” She asked me several times, and warned the small roads have no lampshades at night. Behind her, I heard a hollow thud and noticed a small bird had flown into the glass of the hotel and dropped out of the sky.

Yes, I did not feel as easy in Dampierre Sur Salon as I had the night before at the loveliest countryside home in Leffond, but I could manage. We continued chatting, I did not have to think about how I had arrived too late for the accommodation I meant or was scared of the hotel’s deserted reception desk as long as I had a friend, here, showing me pictures on her phone with Michael Jackson’s family and the Heal the World foundation party in Amsterdam.

By the time I gave in and asked for a room at the hotel, I felt lucky to get one.

When I went to find the room, the reception, which had been so eerily deserted before, was now alive with a bus full of Chinese tourists of all ages.

“Bonjour!” I said to one that I passed directly, a man aged about 100 in a baseball cap. He returned only a completely bewildered look that resonated. I hurried into my austere room, shut the door behind me and laughed my head off.

l a • l i e z - l e f f o n d

“Life gives you plenty of time to do whatever you want to do if you stay in the present moment” - Deepak Chopra

Yesterday saw 33km of walking from Lac  Liez to Lefford, with most of the distance covered in the trails along the lake!

Before going to sleep, I had looked online to estimate 6 hours along a country road for the trip to Leffond, 8 hours outside Champlittle. When I woke up, the sun shining, a good breakfast, and a nice conversation with the new owner of the hotel, I decided to reroute.

“Oh, today would be lovely to walk the trail along the lake!”  she said.

So that’s what I did! 

As the trip goes on, I find I’m taking more and more of what I’ve learned from each place and person I encounter with me. 

In Chateauvillian, the home of a historic site related to Simone De Beavouir, I was inspired to read about her 12 hour treks alone through the alps in espadrilles. In Langres, The friend from Germany said that she listens to the birds and the wind when she walks instead of playing music, which I thought was so beautiful! And this morning, taking a point in a good direction from the young owner of the hotel instead of using google maps gave me a chance to philosophize and listen on a lovely trail as I felt inspired.

What I found was magic.

And a new bit of confidence, I was getting on just fine finding and reading the trail markings. When I woke up from this dream around 4pm, despite attacking the hotel breakfast with an appetite the size of my backpack that morning, I was famished.

I found myself, grumpily, in a town with only a post office and shuttered boulangerie. I asked the post office for a stamp and to refill my water bottle for a tiny boost before hiking west 2 km to the grocery store in the next town.

After finding food, the drive to make it to my place for the night set in. I felt anxiety about walking west to this new town just for the grocery store, about spending the daylight and my energy on the indirect but beautiful trail. But louder than this was the voice that said, just keep walking, keep trying, it will all work out. 

So I asked for directions. The woman who helped me gave good ones, I only needed to find one road and take it “Tout droix, tout droix, tout droix”, an arm churning forward, 15km.

This I could do.  

Before leaving town I found one open place- a bar- to refill my water bottle, got some wrong directions, but quickly realized and found my road.

It was taking forever, but I was on my way. My 42k to Langres emboldened me that I could make a very long distance if needed. I trusted the pilgrim host would not turn me away if I took all the daylight of the long summer day to make it to their door. I was, however, running out of water.

I asked the only person on the street, a painter unpacking his tools for the day, for help finding a place to refill my bottle. Instead, he gave me all he had left from his lunchbox, a fresh liter of Perrier, a cookie, a bag of walnuts and hot chocolate and sent me on my way, arms loaded with treats.

It was so kind. I felt in my mouth I had started to become dehydrated and in that moment I would have taken a liter of Perrier over a million dollars.

The mental boost of this unexpected blessing would have taken me the remaining 8 or 10 km. Instead, at the edge of the town, a smartly dressed woman about my mother’s age pulled her little hatchback to the side of the road, climbed out, and offered me a ride to Leffond, my stop for the night! She lived in Paris and was from Leffond, she knew the owners of the place I was staying and the way, and dropped me there in 10 minutes, though we both knew it would have been 10pm by foot.

I can’t a place more wonderful or welcoming to find after a long day than Le Moulin de la Paperterie. I could smell the fire cooking dinner and they had already made a place for me! What’s more, I learned my hosts literally wrote the guidebook for the Via Francigena in France!

I was on the last page of the book I have lived by since Reims, it ends here, in Champlittle. They gave me the new one to take me to Besançon.

l a n g r e s - l a • l i e z

 "Once you start moving in love the universe will assist you. You will be a drop of water with the ocean as your army” - Kanye 

I am writing from La Liez, a town on the lake that sits about 4km outside of Langres. Yesterday morning, I was the last to leave Langres at the pilgrim hostel; drinking coffee and writing all morning at the small breakfast table.

Coffee turned into lunch, lunch into a quick walk around the city. I walked along the famous walls outlining the town and looked far into the distance. I saw farms like the ones I had walked through to get here, and to the east, a lake. I tried to frame my photos with the blue water.

I walked down Diderot, the main stretch named for the encyclopedia innovator, where a few shops were open on a Sunday. I walked through the massive door to the Cathedral. I thought it was as good a place as any to ask for help phoning down the road to the next stop.

I ended up having a very nice conversation with Christine, a woman who operates tourist information at the church.

Langres is a special city because it is the crossroads of pilgrimages to Santiago and Rome. She shared with me how interesting it was to meet the 100 or so pilgrims a year that pass through the Cathedral, hear their different reasons why, and watch them unite in friendship and continue the road together.

She encouraged me to explore the Cathedral while she helped guests that had come in and used her own phone to reach the next accommodation on my path.

The call did not reach the owner on the first try, after all it was a Sunday, but I was thankful for the help felt I would find my way even if this door closed.

I looked over the city walls one more time before leaving them behind. It was late in the day, 2:30PM, I would not come back to stay a second night.

I came to the roundabout, sat down on the grass, and pulled out my map. I noticed for the first time there were symbols for hotels, restaurants, groceries and a camping ground 4km down the road along the lake. I didn’t see the signs from the roundabout towards this town, but I remembered the direction of the lake from this morning. With the walls of the city behind me, I went that way.

I soon saw trail markings towards the lake, so I followed them. It was nice to take a relaxed pace forward after yesterday. When I got to the lake, I saw the hotel laid right beside it. They had room, so I checked in, grabbed a white towel, and went walking along the lake. Unlike Lac Du Der, it seemed like you could jump in anywhere, so I laid my things in my baseball cap at the end of the dock and did that.

As I swam, many happy memories of my life became real again. I paused to look around every few meters. I breathed in and out into the water. It felt good.

When I came back, I saw a message on my phone from the host down the road I had reached out to with Christine’s help! She had found me on Facebook- we were already friends through her involvement  in the Via Francigena and my blog as I am walking!

We made the plan for today, and after a good rest I am very much looking forward!

- l a n g r e s

“One thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call” - Paul the Apostle

Yesterday began early, ended late, and saw the most walking yet- over 40km from Chateauvillian to Langres.

I woke up already tired. I slept only a few hours, with the anticipation of the challenge to make it to Langres in the back of my mind.

I stirred two packets of instant coffee into boiling water and locked the door to the pilgrim apartment behind me at around 7AM.

The boulangerie was already open. I took a pain aux chocolat et almond and a word of good advice from Delphine, the baker.

« Arc - en - Barrois » she wrote a green post it note after I told her my plan to walk to Langres. It’s the name of a town that lies about halfway.

I filed this in my pocket and set out.

I started out on a path with no outlet along the historic site of Simone de Bouvier’s summer retreat. Then I walked across the antique car rally setting up in the park and into the woods.

The morning forest was something I’ve never seen before. Light filtered through the mist and trees. Deer scattered all around. I looked at their faces when they stopped to stand perfectly still between the trees. I realized there were more of them and my eye adjusted to pick them out from the shadows.

I reached another impassé at the end of the woods, the equestrian center. This time, I stopped inside to ask for directions.

Truthfully, an erratic personality had stopped to ask me too many questions on the empty dirt road in front of the horse farm, and entering seemed a good way to end the conversation and reroute. I calmed myself with the horses until a kindred spirit in the familiar uniform of a fleece, jodhpurs and ponytail arrived to point me back to the big road.

I had to walk back the whole length of the forest to get there, but as they say, « n’est pas grave »

I listened to some reggae music as I walked through hay fields and watched antique cars zip by on their way to the show.

By 1PM, I reached Arc-en-Barrois - Delphine’s suggestion. It was lovely, but I felt greedy with all the daylight left, so instead of finding an accommodation there, I asked the tourist office for help to phone the pilgrim hostel in Langres. 

My intentions set, I picked up lunch at the quick market- fruit, crackers, a Caesar salad. Wolfing down salad with a plastic fork in anticipation of the work in front of me I reminded me of my life in New York.

I couldn’t even fathom how after walking all morning I still had 30k left to reach Langres. Looking at the map I speculated taking the road through Arc - en - Borrais, while lovely, added 5k.

But here I was, a tank full of gas; with nothing to do but make it happen. The tourist office gave instructions to show up at the address in Langres whenever.

I walked through a green tunnel of forest and empty road for another hour, and by 2PM, 25k on the day, I was ready to call it. Afternoon fatigue was setting in. I saw one sign for a hotel in the middle of nowhere, my current location. It seemed too good to be true, but I stubbornly followed a mile out of the way. Looking for one miracle in a village of papered windows and locked doors.

I saw a single soul, a postal worker. I explained my situation for 10 minutes and she confirmed there was definitely no hotel nearby, Langres was 25k away, and she had to go back to work so, Bon Chance!

I had been convincing myself for an hour I was too tired to keep going, but I had no choice now. After my sojourn into the little town yielded nothing but extra walking, something broke inside of me. There was no phone-a-friend today, no towns, no data on my phone, no stores, no hotels. I needed to help myself. I prayed for a new miracle, that I would the strength to make it to Langres on my own two feet.

Something about the conversation with the postal worker had emboldened me. The fatigue lifted as I left behind my conviction that I needed to take a nap and started putting one foot in front of the other. At first, looking at my feet in unchanging forest made me dizzy. Did I need to sit down? I couldn’t, so I drank down enough water to make my Aunt from Arizona proud. I was listening to one Harry Styles song on repeat through the speaker of my phone. Was I going insane?

“Just stop your crying it will be alright...”

Somehow the music helped me move forward without thinking of how far I had to go or how long I had been at it already.

When the landscape changed from forest to farms, with faraway towns visible in either direction, I knew I would make it. I watched my emotions change in front of me like the path I was walking. I had been so convinced I couldn’t walk a step more at 2PM, now four hours later I was unstoppable. I was thinking and feeling a lot of things, none of which I trusted as much as my legs steadily moving me forward.

As I closed in on the city, a caring woman named Elizabeth who introduced herself as an accueil de pèlerins offered to take me the remaining 8k to the presbytère. She had just hosted another American pilgrim last night who I would meet at the hostel, she knew the way.

It felt like a miracle, it felt no different than taking another step forward on my own two feet.

Within an hour of arriving in the city after 12 hours of walking in the closest thing to absolute solitude I’ve ever experienced, I found myself laughing with a group of other pilgrims from Milan and Frankfurt about all the things the Camino brings - wet boots and muddy bikes, jumpy goats, champagne and long stretches along the canals.

As I looked around the cheery Senegalese restaurant where we were eating dinner, I was in awe of how the landscape and my mood had changed so drastically again.

Then we returned to the hostel. I was surprised to find a familiar face- the man from the Netherlands, who in Reims had sparked the conversation about nature of friendships on a pilgrimage when people are always coming and going. 

We all spent more time socializing, exchanging emails, and joking around - about broken bicycles, about the friendliness of Germans, about the goats!  

One of the Italians asked me;

“Does it happen often, that you meet other pilgrims and all share a meal Iike this?

I thought back to the day I’d had- 12 hours, 42k- my slowest marathon ever on an empty course between feet and my backpack- and smiled.

“Not in a while!”

•••​

- c h â t e a u v i l l a i n

 “accept the gifts life keeps giving you again and again without you asking”  - Osho

I am writing this from after dinner at a friendly restaurant with Scottish owners in Châteauvillain.

“We moved here to France because my wife’s cooking wasn’t good enough for the English” the owner jokes dryly from behind the bar. It’s a joke for the English family that’s just walked in, but I laugh too!

I’ve been in France for three weeks now.

After dinner, we have a nice conversation. They tell me about Paul McCartney’s carpool karaoke.

It’s been a long and winding road today from Bar-Sur-Aube.

bar-sur-aube

I was woken up at 4am from a visit by Mme. Migraine, another reoccurring friend on this trip. By the end of breakfast, I feel back up to speed, but I’m cautiously optimistic, thinking to do just 15km for the day.

I hit the tourist office on my way out of town for a nice stamp in my pilgrim passport and a point in the right direction. They tell me the nunnery, my first choice, is already fully booked on this Friday night. But, if I can make it to the address of this boulangerie 30km away in Châteauvillain, there will be a place waiting for me.

bar sur aube

It sounds like a big challenge at high noon.

« J’ai besoin de courir! »

I say, as I stuff my maps in my pockets and sprint for the door.

I feel I’m riding for a fall to take on such a big late day when I know I’m not quite fully recovered from my shorter march yesterday, but I also know I can do it if I have to.

I stock extra water and two chocolate bars, grab my backpack straps to put a bit of weight in my hands, and start running.

I pace myself. Instead of trying to continuously run, I count to 120, or the next good tree, or the end of  the downhill, then switch back to walking. Run, walk, run walk.

I remember drills over Cat Hill in Central Park.

“Lean into the downhill, let it take you”

I repeat now, and it works. Gravity seems to work double time with the backpack and 2-liter of water. Somehow this feels easier than walking. I remember every step I take is behind me forever as I close in on my goal.

I’m almost to the first town, just 5km in, cruising, when I hear a car beside me. I peek inside, it’s just a kind-faced french woman with her groceries and little dog in the backseat.

She offers me a lift to the next town. I remember the feeling of this morning’s migraine, calculate my impossible splits for making it to the boulangerie, and accept!

She says she can just take me down the road a bit, and that’s fine by me.

I explain pilgrimage in my best french, and she explains the Nativity patchwork she made for the church last year. I’m leaning a lot of new words. Patchwork is just patchwork with a french accent, so is Amish!

She tells me she learned about them on a TV program, she likes to learn how people in other places live.

A pilgrim passport seems to be as good an invitation as any for people to voice the changing nature of their relationship with the Church and spirituality. So I try to catch what she is saying and learn another new word, «rebelle! »

D’accord!

My head spins at how fast the fields are going by, but I am also happy for an unexpected conversation after anticipating another long day alone in my thoughts, between my two earbuds.

She leaves me off 10km from my destination, but not before piling peaches, banana, and cookies into my arms and writing down her name - Murielle! and phone number. I write down my blog and she files it for her daughter.

I continue on to Châteauvillain, a 15km day after all.

entering  c h â t e a u v i l l a i n

When I reach the town, I realize it’s beautiful, and I am grateful to find it with plenty of daylight left. The town hall is bright and modern, and they give me the key to the pilgrim apartment, which is generously operated on a donation only basis.

It takes a few times around the block to discover, but when I find the building and unlock the apartment it is cheery, clean and bright.

pilgrim donation box and guestbook

I relax, put my backpack down, and go outside to explore, charmed at every corner by the city’s cobwebbed alleys and stone walls.

I see some children cast their bikes down and run up a hill buttressed by a stone wall and overlooking a bright stream. I notice little bags and papers floating down into the water while I take pictures below.

the children’s hill

The children are laughing. I think to scold them for littering, but I don’t know the words.

I start walking up the other side of the hill and they jump and screech towards me, elbows and hands bent in the universal gesture for “pretend  monster”

I feign a scream back, shake my head wildly and run and run and run up the next hill without looking back

••• 

Garden flowers, c h â t e a u v i l l a i n

Garden shed, c h â t e a u v i l l a i n

b r i e n n e - l e - c h â t e a u • b a r - s u r - a u b e

 “Well I tell them there’s no problem, only solutions”

- John Lennon

I am writing this from the St. Nicolas hotel in Bar-Sur-Aube, where the receptionist has the best accent in the world and asks everybody immediately upon entering the breakfast room first, if they slept well and then if they would like a

« ‘omemade w-eiffel»?!

(Yes!)

I spent the first part of yesterday camped between the tourist office of Brienne-Le-Château and the Napoleon museum.

The musée offered free WiFi, the tourist office; help to reload my SIM card. Reading the fine print in french is hard, but Elizabeth, who worked at the front desk, was incredibly helpful.

“If you can wait until half past 12, I have my break and I will go with you”, she said. And so I did, and it worked!

With my SIM card loaded, I started the 25km to Bar-Sur-Aube at  1PM. I felt a little anxiety about leaving late in the day, but there was nothing to do but practice calming my mind and start walking. As soon as I began, I saw a good sign!

A little orange house cat was rested on the grass in front of the city limit sign. A very special wildlife sighting for me, a waffle!

Waffle is the name of a little orange cat who lives in Manhattan with all my friends; the mascot of our group. He was rescued from an animal shelter by my friend Cindy. After starting his new life mostly hiding under beds, he is now well-adjusted member of the group.

I knew right away this French cat was Waffle’s spirit animal and a special connection to my friends in New York!

I thanked the little cat for the photos, Snapchatted them to the group with my new data, and walked on through fields of wildflowers.

The kms ticked up and the afternoon grew later. When I reached a little town about 12 km outside of Bar-sur-Aube, I was delighted to discover moving water that cut through the town.

A bit further, I discovered  the stream widened and fanned into a lovely picnic spot.

I shelved my backpack on the stone wall and climbed over to explore.

I resisted the urge to peel off my socks and jump in, reminding myself I had “miles to go before I sleep”. But even the brief respite refreshed me.

When I finally reached Bar-Sur-Aube, I was wiped.

I pieced together the healthiest meal I could from the McDonald’s “petit faim” menu and tried to connect to their WiFi. The noisy children dining alongside me with their parents made me smile. There’s something comforting about universal way kids act and speak -

Child: “Papa!!!!”

Mother: “Shhhhh!”

-when you are living with a bit of a language barrier.

I hiked to the hotel to discover another surprise, familiar dance and pop records blasting through the  streets.

I learned the 21st of June is the “Fête de la Musique” in France; “an occasion va for people to play music in the street where they want and until when they want”

I enjoyed the music very much as I walked down the street looking lost.

Maybe even moreso when an older gentleman wearing all the French colors passed by and without stopping, gave me an energetic update on France and Argentina’s standings in the World Cup before storming away.

It was good day.

- b r i e n n e - l e - c h â t e a u

​“the place where you are right now, God circled on a map for you” - Hafiz

I am writing from one bedroom of the three story hunting lodge rented in its entirety to me for the night by the town of Brienne Le Chateau for 10€.

With  the birds chirping I feel I’ve overcome my fear of the dark another night.

Yeaterday saw about 23 km from Outines to Brienne-Le-Chateau.

I started the day so happy in Outines, a pack full of clean laundry, strong coffee and a patch of WiFi sufficient to upload pictures.

In this spirit I moved into the day, hot and bright. Fields of brown and gold wheat rolled on each side of an empty highway. In the distances, green corn stalks reflected the sun almost too brightly to look at.

I wondered what was growing in these fields, when it would be harvested.

“When you look at this landscape, what do you see? I’m trying to develop more of an appreciation for wheat and corn, we’re spending so much time together. But all I see is stuff Gwyneth Paltrow would not eat!”

I talked to myself, I tried making a vlog, but that was the only joke I could up with. The front-facing camera brought back an element of self-consciousness after 3 weeks of walking I had started to leave behind.

So I listened to music instead.

“I’ve planned each chartered course, each carefully step, along the byway”

I put a soundtrack of Frank Sinatra to the endless sky and rolling fields.

In a few kilometers, a saw bobbing heads moving through the fields of wheat. I started flailing my arms to wave, I knew right away they were other pilgrims. They didn’t see me. I wasn’t discouraged through, I watched them move like parade of ants through the field and counted one, two, three, four.

And when I walked on, they exited the field alongside me!

“Hi!!!!!!! Bonjour!”

A big hug for Veronique, and the rest of the crew from yesterday, now in their sun protective gear.

We sat together on the picnic benches checking mosquito bites and reapplying sunscreen. This time, I hadn’t come hungry, having just eaten lunch in the pretty pretty town of Chavanges.

Chavanges

So today, instead of feeling sheepish, I had something to share! I switched on my data to showed the group the blog I posted about the day we spent together.

They read aloud the french words, quarreled over what was happening in the fence hopping picture, and oh la la’d the photo of the butterflies in the garden we had done the same over in real life yesterday.

When it was time to move on, we agreed because my goal for the day was Brienne-le-Chateau, I would stay on the other road where they entered the forest.

“We will see you again, We will see you again.”

“And when we meet you third time, a beer!”

Alain added with an index finger and smile.

I wondered if this was like a rule in the traditional “levels of friendship” culture I first became aware of over breakfast in Reims. In any case, I was very happy at the idea on this hot, hot day.

I moved through a flat field endlessly. I had drank an entire “carafe du l’eau” at lunch and refilled my water bottle, but it was empty again.

I was grateful to make it to the open tourist office and glug another liter while they scanned my passport, put out a lease document out for me to sign, took my 10.60€ and handed over a set of keys.

They circled the pilgrim accommodation on the map. “You will know it because the house has the mark of the two, how do you say-“ he stuck his fingers out like antlers in front of his face.

“Bambi!”

“Oui!”

But there was no WiFi; so I hung outside the Napoleon museum for a signal before searching for a SIM card.

I even made a friend in the process, Lucy, a local preschool teacher who seemed to understand my french, and helped me find the store, the hunting lodge “hotel” and the supermarché.

“Is it okay?”

“I don’t know, do you want to look with me?”

So we laughed at the gauche facade, ran up the spiral stairs, cautiously opened doors and shook our heads at the rows of hospital beds. 

When she left, she said to call if there were problems, but I didn’t know what either of us would be able to do in the event of ghosts.

So I settled in with my granola bars, about to feel scared and alone when, my friend from Reims, the French pilgrim of the Camino de Compostelle, messaged me.

“Sara! Ça va?”

I explained the haunted house Brienne-le-chateau.

“Don’t be scared, God protects you”

But as I think about everyday when I walk

“Even belief in God is only a poor substitute for the reality of God manifesting every moment of your life”

And it that moment it was the perfect coincidence we were both near Lac Du Der and could catch up over a slice of pizza at the one picnic bench open in town!

Prayer card from the Camino de Santiago 

s t • r e m y - o u t i n e s

The perfect restful chambre d’hote in St Remey en Bouzement could only have been found walking. When I woke up, I didn’t know what new and good things the day would bring, but I set out to find them- on foot, towards the little town of Outines.

Outines was only 12km away, so I felt relaxed. I was about 3km down the road, making a photo shoot of the baby cows behind a fence, when I spotted a group of people walking down the middle of the dirt road.

I saw their khaki clothes and hiking boots from a mile away knew they were pilgrims too. I started waving. I don’t think they saw, but I wasn’t deterred,  I watched them walk closer and waved again!

They were Veronique, Therese, Marc and Alain from Belgium. They were walking the Saint - Jacques de Compostelle route which  converged with the Via Francigena here. 

They didn’t believe me when I told them my age, but it was okay, I didn’t believe them when they told me their ages!

Alain and Therese spoke some English, Veronique spoke mostly French, and Marc was the spiritual leader of the group.

It was easy to understand each other, though. The french word for mosquito is almost exactly the same. A shoulder to lean on while taking a pebble out of your shoe is universal. For the rest, we managed between what words we knew and Veronique’s unique ability to simplify and pantomime parts of conversation.

“She teaches children ages 7 and 8 and her students trust her.” Alain said.

“Avoir confidence” Therese said.

I understood.

We were on the true path too. The same dark woods marked with red and white flags and maze of corn that I had retreated from walking alone out of Chalons-en-Champagne. I barely noticed that now, except the way it was harder to pick up words in french passing over the crunchy white gravel than it was on the soft, silent grass.

When we came to the fork in the road, I felt a small reluctance to be alone again. I read the trail markers of opposite arrows without comment.

“We will have lunch!” Veronique said. And even though I felt sheepish that I had not packed lunch, I sat down in the grass and nibbled on what they shared. The french word for picnic is almost exactly the same!

Afterwards, Marc left to get the car they were using to carry their camping gear and the rest walked with me to Outines. I’m still not sure if they rerouted to make this trip with me, but I didn’t ask!

They helped me find the chambre d’hote Sylvie had dialed from St. Remy en Bouzement. They even negotiated the price of my room down with the owner.

“Jeune! Tout seul!” Veronique said, with her arm around me in a moment I couldn’t speak or understand a word of french. It worked! Whether he was happy about it or not, the owner agreed to a big discount from the price on the door at Veronique’s insistence.

We finally parted ways with big hugs and, at my insistence, an exchange of emails!

I dropped my bag for a moment of relief and looked around. The WiFi didn’t seem to be working. My cell phone data stays turned off these days; after failing to read the fine print of my “unlimited” plan, I used up 95% of it in the first 15 days of the month!

I had the idea of cycling to the lake- maybe this property came with bikes like on Fire Island! But anyone to ask seemed to have disappeared to wherever in these quiet little towns people hide, so I sought out the road instead.

The map in the center of town showed the way to the lake so I pulled my compass out and started walking. Once I saw a sign for Lac Du Der, I put my headphones in and started running; stiff, and slow, but free without my backpack and with somewhere to go.

On my way back from the lake, I felt a car pull up on the road beside me. My instincts pulled away from the road and paused before looking in. Oh it was just taxi, I laughed. The driver hunched over in the car so I could see his face. I knew him! 

“You are good now?  

It was the one driver who was working on Sunday, who took me from St Amande Sur Fois when I was feeling so sick. 

I answered something about dehydration that needed translation but didn’t. 

“Good!” He put up his hand and sped around the corner, a pilgrim on another route. 

v i t r y - l e - f r a n ç o i s - s t. • r e m y • e n • b o u z e m e n t

 “There is one path in the world no one can walk but you. Where does it lead? Don’t ask, walk!” - Frederick Nietzsche

My walk away from the festival, in the end, was my path to being well and on my merry way. There are a million ways things can work out, and I only needed one.

When I walked down the road in St Amande sur Fion, I found 2 gites - both full because of the festival!

I remembered the country inn I stayed at in Trefcon. The Madame there had a sun-drenched face that made her every feeling apparent. The opposite of Botox! When she warned me it would be difficult to find accommodation in a small town on the weekend, I could tell she was serious and I rerouted straight to the city of St. Quentin. This weekend, it seems I lived the exact conundrum she warned of- two days in a row!

But there I was anyway, at the second full gite at St Amande Sur Fios. There was no room. But the owner let me sit, gave me a piece of cherry tart I wished I could eat, opened the yellow pages, and called 5 taxi companies until finding the one that was working on Sunday. Then, after making sure I had my own money to pay the driver (yes!) sent me to find a hotel in Vessily-Le-Francois, 20km away.

I felt so sick in that taxi. “Do you want to go to the hospital? It’s free in France!” The driver told me. “No!” but I felt a lot better knowing I wouldn’t have to translate the American system of paying for the hospital into French if it came to that.

I checked into one of the only hotels available in Vessily; the saddest yellow room in an area surrounded by factories. But I also saw two bunnies in the yard. And it was a place to shut my eyes, take a shower and drinks lots of water.

I plugged in my phone and clutched it for kindness. I listened to a song with a lot of synthesizers I discovered at the record shop at Canterbury; I have played it to fill up every empty hotel room since.

In the morning, I felt much better. After my “usual” breakfast of a croissant, bread, jam and coffee, I was a new woman.

I finished my writing, faced my fear of calling my UK cell service provider with a question, and walked into town to study maps at the tourist office.

The Via Francigena has two paths in this part of France. I was now on the long way to Bar-Sur-Aube, having skipped the opportunity to make it in 3 days from Chalons-on-Champagne by going through a town called Coole.

But now I would will pass pass by Lac de Dur, a local attraction that I’ve been hearing people talk about since I left Reims, and maybe even go for a swim!

I accepted the new path and let the tourist office help me make a reservation for the first town on this route, St. Remy en Bouzement, a very relaxed 15km walk away.

“Do you want dinner there tonight?” The agent at the office asked, I said yes - but part of me felt like this was so preplanned!

How could I have known that it would be my first glance into a country kitchen? With a wonderful home cooked meal and an amiable host, Sylvie, who would email me her recipes and give me me small French lessons over dessert.

On words that sound the same with different meanings; 

“Mon mari est le mayor de la ville, mais Je suis la mere des les enfants”

(Which was true!)

And on food;

“My grandmother taught me when I was a little girl, You taste with your nose, then your eyes, then your mouth”

Which was also true, because about 30 minutes before the dinner hour, I had started following the smells coming off the stove, into the kitchen, camera in hand.

- v i t r y - l e - f r a n ç o i s

Night melted into day in the hayloft. Through the big “window” I faced my sleeping bag towards, I watched the sky go from midnight blue to dark black.

I listened to goats, hoping to catch some soothing rythmn, but goats are jumpy animals. “They only stop moving when they are sleeping” the cheesemaker said. For me it was the same.

I only knew I fell asleep eventually because I woke up. The night lasted a lifetime, I woke up in heaven; a pinky blue sky and music. First the roosters, then the flying birds- swallows I think, then the bleeting of baby lambs, actually the pen of female goats less then one year old below me. I walked around, rolled up my sleeping bag, and brushed the hay out of my hair. 

Downstairs, I met the cheesemaker for a small tour of the barn. A reintroduction to the goats. I watched them race up the stairs to be fed while the milking machines were attached. I saw the vat where the milk went, and the cheese laboratory. 

I nearly had an asthma attack, but the cheesemaker closed his eyes, took a deep breath, gathered his fingers like an Italian and smiled - “Good smell”. 

And the cheese was good. A few hours into my morning walk, I rustled open the paper to the nice portion of aged goat cheese he sent me off with. It was buttery and fresh, but strange, it tasted exactly like the past 12 hours (and probably me at this point) smelt; a pure and direct product of hay and milk and goats and fresh air.

As I snacked on the cheese, I did something I almost never do. I stopped to sit in the grass and eat, and looked at my phone for entertainment. I read a blog of another pilgrim weeks ahead of me in Italy, and had a good laughed at their account of strange little monks, summer festivals, and junk food. I Whatsapped one of the pilgrims I met in Wisque, - few days behind me now, then called the Bed and Breakfast I stayed at in Versy, to reserve him there for the following night.

“Modern pilgrims. GPS!”, as the cheesemaker commented this morning. Truly, but I also felt grateful for cell phone towers in that moment. At low points in my trip sometimes I have suddenly gotten a digital high five, or a laugh, or a song that has kept me going.

So I kept going. I have been following local maps of the Via I picked up in Reims, which I like, but I felt discouraged to realize these maps were taking me the long way to Bar-Sur-Aube, compared to my original guide which made the trip in 3 hops through the town of Coole.

Oh well, at least the road wasn’t stretching ahead infinitely as it felt, I soon found myself in the very charming town of St Amande Sur Fior - and look! Ponies! A poster for a free summer festival here too- today is Juin 17!! 

It was for real, and the security at the festival entry were already set up and pretty nice about letting me bring in a backpack with my entire life inside. There were food trucks open for business and other people, so basically I was thrilled after walking a morning of cyclists and stoic churches.

I knew from my map small hotels existed in this town too. My parents were worried about the tired eyes I was sporting behind my french soccer make up and texted me in unison - maybe you should take a day off. My head was pounding inexplicably, this town was nice! All signs seemed to say stay here tonight.  

When I asked the information booth to point me towards the hotels, the director of the local circus offered right away to take me in if everything was full.   

Cool! I thought and relaxed enough to sit for lunch with them before the festival got busy. When I found myself at the picnic table alone as everyone was pulled to work, my head was getting worse, but I still had some Advil from Laon, so I took one, waited for the pounding to stop and watched the show.

There was a good feeling about being the odd wanderer into this local fête. I watched the circus performers practice. They wore clothes that reflected their own style and an intense expression of focus as they performed an art that reminded me of surfing. It was almost disorienting to watch; these impossible flips and balancing acts;  magic that I suspected was the product of physics, practice hours, and a lot of guts to even try.

By the time the first music act, a loud metal band went on, I realized my headache medicine was not working at all. The little kids wearing neon headphones to protect their hearing and  playing air guitar along were so cute, but I did not want to concern their moms by staying and falling asleep on my backpack in the middle of the party. I felt something that’s happened to me only once before, after running 15 miles before work in July. I was so cold.

I noticed women around me were wearing short sleeved dresses and cropped jackets, I put on my jacket and raincoat and was still cold.

I had reached the threshold of feeling sick, where if I was at school or work, I would be dismissed to go home without faking it. But  where would I go home now? Even though this nice family had offered me a place to stay, the festival lasted to 9PM and they were working all day, I was alone now. 

So with no solution apparent, I past the festival stage, the music, the performers, the security gates and starting walking. 

c h a l o n s - c h a u s s é e - s u r - m a r n e

I woke up yesterday in Chalons en Champagne, in the first hotel reccomendation I’ve used from my original itinerary. Just by chance, but that it also had a bathtub- that was destiny!  I went to sleep in Chaussée-sur-Marne, on a bale of hay, listening to bleating  baby goats below me- just by chance I found a cheverie that accommodates pilgrims- that was destiny!

I had a sort of restless sleep at the hotel from eating dinner too late, so soon after opening my eyes I had my cofffee. I spent the morning writing and answering emails while I had good WiFi.

Around 9:30am, I dragged my feet to the tourist office to get a stamp and find where the Via Francigena trail connects to the city. Along the way I also found - some french soccer facepaint in a newsstand, and this awesome old Mini Cooper flagrantly parked in front of the cathedral. 

And I found the trail, it was really well marked for Francigena and Compostelle. As I passed bikers, joggers, and dog walkers, they shouted “Allez Les Bleus!” which was fun- I guess people really do respond to you differently when you put on make up!

Even though I knew I was on the right path, and it was marked well everywhere, when I got about 2km in and the frequency of french football fans died down, I felt a little uneasy. I barely saw anyone, literally just one other person and they were urinating off the trail. I was like 2km/25 in, and I also didn’t see a lot of outlets if I wanted to get off the trail at some later point. So I decided to reroute. And, I wanted to watch the World Cup for real and it was almost noon!. 

So I had made 5k circle. I ate lunch and watched the match quietly before hitting the road. I was struggling to get going, but when I looked at the map it seemed that there was a road almost directly from the restaurant to the next town on the road to Rome, so I got on it. 

I had none of the anxiety I felt on the trail. I walked a suburban path and ticked off the cities on my map listening to music, checking messages, and wondering where my road would end without worrying about it at all.​ 

I saw a big hotel in ​La Chaussée-sur-Marne, one city before St. Amande, and thought, this must be the place! I looked around for a reception area, then just a person nearby. A woman jogging around the block confirmed the hotel had closed.  

“There’s another around the corner though!” 

So that’s where I went. It looked pretty nice, a restaurant with a patio, small garden, and buckets of champagne on ice. I felt a bit of premature happiness thinking about the shower I wanted to take, but also checked in with my legs to see if I could walk 7km to the next town if this didn’t work. 

The reception desk had a wall with just three clunky keys hanging behind it. ​That should have been my first clue.

“parlez-anglais?”

“We’re fully booked”​

​As I learned in 7th grade french and have yet to hear anyone say - “Zut! Alors...”

I actually didn’t react at all, I just asked if there were others, and it turns out there really weren’t, but the receptionist was kind enough to keep calling and searching for 20 minutes on a busy Saturday, until something worked. ​

I was sitting outside, searching with my phone too, to no avail. I finally decided to pack it in, thank the desk, and start walking again.​

“Merci beacoup, vraiment”-

“Wait!” He put the phone receiver on his shoulder. I think I have something, it’s an attic, no shower, just 500m down the road.

I pictured my grandmother’s ​attic and shrugged. 

“Perfect!”​

He wrote down the name “La Ferme Gourmande” and sent me on my way to arrive in 15 minutes. 

I now had a piece of paper, which​ I walked straight to the Pizza truck in the middle of town with. I placed an order cause I did not want to risk one driving away on me again by the time I checked into the BnB- and continued to the place. 

It looked like a restaurant and a young couple waiting for a table showed me it also had goats.

Eventually, I met the head of the whole show, the English speaking cheese maker, who introduced me to his whole family working Saturday night dinner at the restaurant, and finally showed me the attic room.

I followed the creaky stairs above the pens of goats to learn that “attic” was the direct translation from french for “hay loft”

“Do you have a - “

“Sleeping bag?” 

“Yes!”​

​And I guess I have been carrying it around all this time for this moment. 

I am the first person to admit, I’m scared of the dark, and I didn’t know how I would sleep in this massive hayloft by myself, listening to the goats knocking latches and stamping their feet all night. But I also knew it was the craziest hotel room I’ve ever seen, and if I could make it through the night it would be an experience for which I had no reference points.

“Awesome!” I said,  put my backpack down on a haybale and went to pick up the pizza.

v e r z y - c h a l o n s

I woke up pretty excited to explore the new scenery of the vineyards in the morning light. 

landscapes change gradually when you’re walking, but champagne country felt distinct right away.

for one, I think verzy was the first town I entered that wasn’t organized around a steeple. there were clearly other forces at work here. 

i’m at a point in my trip where I might expect to get homesick. maybe this is why I felt so happy trotting through the champagne fields.

There were farms and tractors like there had been in wheat fields before - but all around i felt so amused by Champagne’s connection to New York-  the local joke lifted straight from the bars of Notorious B.I.G., the people wearing the odd Veuve Cliquot event t-shirt; the smell of money- in the carefully tended crops, in the stylish little centrevilles with open stores and fruit stands, and the luxury cars that suddenly appeared speeding down the roads.

I soaked it all in as I walked in the golden sun, a peculiar little pelerín in this world of good things. 

Maybe this also made me so happy because the vineyards read as an affirmative  “S” on my compass pointed towards Rome​.

​Pas-de-Calais, where I started my trip in France, doesn’t grow wine because there’s not enough sun until you come to the southern regions; Champagne, Bordeux. I felt this with ever inch of my sunburn.

I thought of the first stamp on my pilgrim passport after Canterbury Cathedral. It was also a sunny day, and the woman at the Duke of Cumberland pub  gave me a Cadbury Bar and told me “You’ll be brown by the time you get to Rome”. She had such a distinct way of talking, like a southern drawl in an English accent. I also remember everyday her haunting but heartfelt sendoff; “Don’t let anyone hurt you, darling”. 

These days, it’s  “Bon courage!” everywhere I go. Idiom reference.com defines this as simply, “Good luck”, but because the way we share these simple words in English, and they’re good, strong ones, I feel they mean more than that, and I take a lot of heart from these well-wishes. 

I’ve collected quite a few of them now, traveling in France for just over two weeks. And on days like today, I feel I’ve come some distance. I recorded at least 38 km from Verzy to Chalons on Champagne today’s walk, finally improving on the ambitious first day I walked from Canterbury to Dover.

After the vineyards, I reached a little town called Condé-sur-Marne, and, feeling a bit of New York after a morning of champagne dreams, I took a very New York minute to relax for lunch - black coffee standing up. 

The 67 year old woman, Marie, tending the bar there between spackling a wall- joined me for a break. She was very patient speaking to me in French, and I understood a lot of what she was saying- maybe because she pulled out a desk calendar to point out weeks and days and ask questions about my trip. She told me she was Polish, baptized Catholic but not practicing - “Lá meme pour tout le mondé” I thought. 

We even struggled through a new vocabulary word, “pape” meaning  “pope”. I didn’t fully understand everything she said- the nuances of why she left the church. When I left though- a first- she asked stamp my pilgrim passport, which I have begun to tuck away in my bag mostly now to save space on the pages for one church in every city. I pulled it out per her request and got the stamp of the brasserie. 

“I’ll show it to the Pope” I promised, and continued South. 

She gave me good directions too- simple ones. You can follow one side of the canal 17km to Chalons. It took a little reorganization to find that path, but once I was on it, it was mind numbingly straightforward. I started writing out loud, singing songs- trying to pick something I knew the words too that would harmonize well with birds chirping.  

I thought about what one of my fellow pilgrims told me, “how could you get bored?there are so many shades of green!” But maybe my soul work still has a way to go, since I the most green $$ I saw was in the champagne vineyards this morning.  

The plants, and the still water of the canal for hours were so silent to me. It made me noisey. I said « bonjour » to every cyclist and fisherman. When I finally met a pair of swans, I laughed out loud at their tube sock necks and hamburglar mask eyes. I was really losing my mind until I saw a sign for 5km to go and a tall building in the distance. 

Around the same time, just outside the city at 4pm, I came upon a bridge over the canal with the promise of a petit centreville .4km away. I did not want to go out of my way and risk finding a town of closed shops and barking dogs, when I was so close to

the finish line for the day, but I needed some diversion, so I took the risk anyway and found an open patisserie. Real good luck at a late hour in the afternoon.

I took about forever to decide on an apricot tart. Instead of sitting to eat it, I  portioned it out over the last 5km of walking to quiet my mind; even if this technique felt a like something borrowed from the tv show “Cesar Milan - Dog Whisperer”-  worked. And I got to Chalons at the end of the day with the reward of an empty mind and a full bathtub. I can’t see how things could have worked out any better. 

— 

PS- Well actually, what made things even better was since I didn’t look at my phone really all day, I was delighted to read comments on yesterday’s blog when I finished walking.  It was really special to me to connect with my friends (of all sorts!) after feeling so pensive on the theme of maintaining friendships. 

r e i m s - v e r z y

I am writing from here in Verzy, a beautiful little town in the champagne country of France. It’s an unexpected turn in my course, I thought I might have stayed an extra day in Reims, a highlight city, but I just wanted to walk. 

My day began with  a long breakfast at the hostel, with other pilgrims from the Netherlands and Belgium. I keep thinking about the conversation I had with them over coffee. For one older gentleman, it was his second pilgrimage, and somehow we got to discussing the friends you make on the way. 

I really struggled with something he said, to the effect of like, “you exchange emails, but you never call, these are friendly people, but they’re not your real friends, they are just people you share the road with.” He pointed to the other man and said, he’s a very nice friendly person, but he’s not my real friend. 

I just felt so sad by all this. I heard myself blurt out loud, ”But who isn’t like that? No one can go the whole way with you, everyone dies” and instantly regretted taking it there. So we politley agreed the Camino was a metaphor for life. But I couldn’t stop struggling with this idea of ​“real friends”, and the kind of pain behind it.

“See you at breakfast tomorrow” he said,​

Which in my mind was part of the same discussion because though I hadn’t articulated my whole plan, in my heart I already knew I would move on before a second breakfast there. Did that make me a “friendly person” but not a “real friend”? How would you choose who to be a “real friend” to of all the people in the world? Can’t we just be as decent as we possibly can be to each other for whatever time we have?

I don’t have an answer, just a question to ask the road while I walk.

So, I walked. In  the later part of the day I advanced 20km along the canal and through the vineyards to end up here in Verzy.

I sweated it out for all of 10 minutes to find a bed and breakfast without a reservation in this tiny town; a little test of faith. It seems so small in a way but it also reminds me of the Christmas story. I now know the feeling of being told “No room in the inn” or ”C’est complet” with a heavy backpack on my shoulders. 

But in the end, I found the Lallement’s two room bed and breakfast, a big clean chambre to myself for the same price as last night’s hostel, after a special pilgrim offer of 25€, well below the 56€ posted. I took a nice shower and arrived to the one dinner option in town, a pizza truck, just as they closed for the night. I wasn’t so hungry that I couldn’t wait until the “strong breakfast” promised the next morning, but even better, I saw Mme. Lallement on my way back, and she offered to make me a snack.

Voila- a massive slab of marbled ham, a Reimes specialty, served alongside a baguette, bread knife and bottle of Alain Lallement rosé.

I sat next to Mme. Lallement at the table as M. Lallement confirmed it was indeed he who made the rosé. “Here in France the water is not so good, so we drink champagne, like in America you have coca cola”. I had a big laugh at this. It reminded me of this club in New York, which has a neon sign at the entrance, with the ubiquitous Biggie lyric “now we sip champagne when when we thirsty”, in pink script. Same idea, really except at this country table it was more than an Instagram! 

I had felt a pang that maybe I missed out on something walking away from Reims this afternoon, past the famous champagne fields and the Veuve Cliquot factory without stepping inside, but I followed my path  forward anyway.

There are a million ways to have a perfect day and this was mine!

c o r b e n y - r e i m s

I really hoof’ed it to get there early

After yesterday’s breakthrough with running, I was excited to get back on the road and  head to Reims, a city I have been looking forward to since I boarded my flight in New York!

Yesterday I only did 20k, and fast, so I landed at the hotel early, went to sleep early, got up early and headed out early today. And as the saying goes, I was feeling healthy, wealthy and wise.  

I ran the first 4 miles continuously, then started walking  for pictures and hills. The morning light shining through the clouds was beautiful!

Even with running and stopping, it went faster. Though I am not yet running continuously, it’s still a different experience than walking. 

I feel all the happiness and good memories that a fast sweat brings. When I break pace to walk, I feel relaxed, in control of my speed, and also as if I could go forever. I’m less tempted to duck into the nearest cafe for a rest or shelter from the road for some reason. I didn’t take any sitting stops today.

Of course, maybe walking can be a bit more meditative. As my writing seems to suggest, when I’m running I’m just thinking about running. 

Also, my overall time on the road is shorter. My phone doesn’t die and I can listen to music. 

Running seems to also be, curiously, less tiring because it’s less overall time you’re strung out on the course (to borrow an idea from the marathon world).

Anyway, I felt pretty energetic when I reached my destination, Reims, right at noon today. As always, my first thought was, OK, where is the tourist office?

To the credit of the local governments here, every small city seems to have a helpful tourist office with a trail of a million signs pointing towards it. Even if I wanted to ask for directions it would be superfluous with a signpost on every corner; « Office de Tourisme, Cathédrale »

I approached the Cathedral from behind and the tour buses parked along the road and my instinct to tap open my camera lens signified I was arriving at the landmark.

I tried to frame a shot of with this fellow tourist in the foreground. Something about the way he seemed to have escaped the group of his peers from the bus (many  looking very world-weary and lounging with their backs towards the sights) to fiddle with his camera made me smile. 

I came around to the front of the church. Breathtaking! And they were handing out little chocolate biscuit samples in the open air surrounding the archeticutural beauty! Amazing! 

The tourist office provided me with a wonderful booklet of maps covering 14 days of 5 hour segments of the Via Francigena, but pointed me in the direction of the church for a stamp for my pilgrim passport.

Thinking about it now, I wonder if this is on account of a strict seperation of church and state after the French Revolution, which, I learned about from Rose when I took that ride to Arras! 

Anyway, back to the church I went, crossing the square without taking another biscuit because I remembered the city of Bapaume motto, « two hands out to give, one to receive »

The church wasn’t unexpectedly bright like the cathedral in Laon had been, but not as dark and foreboding as I felt the small church in Peronne was.

There were several right-side-up tables selling souvenirs.

The cashier of them advised me to wait 10 minutes, until 2PM. That’s when the pilgrim information desk set up shop. 

I was so grateful to to do that; sit down and take off my backpack in the last chair facing the alter. Remember the part of the story where I covered a half marathon with my pack before noon?

Soon the pilgrim desk ladies arrived. Oh my gosh, it really brings me a smile to my face to remember their leader.

She only spoke French, and is probably one of the first people to just confidently and clearly explain things in French to me without pauses or English words mixed in. It was like watching French television to pick up vocabulary. No translation to English, but somehow a newscaster accent and a straightforward style makes everything clearer.

I really admired the zippy way she worked, and of course she helped me, and I am grateful! There aren’t so many other ways I can describe it, so here’s a picture of her behind the desk helping some other pilgrims, with, I think, a literal twinkle in her eye.

I have been thinking about how a couple of people have commented on my Via Francigena stories so far, that things always seem to work out perfectly in the end, I’m traveling alone but in every place there seem to be good people and friends and help and company.

l a o n - c o r b e n y

I’m so stoked right now because in the past four hours, everything about this trip has changed. I’m writing from corbeny, in a little hôtel in the little town down the road from laon and right now it smells way too much like my great aunt’s house. 

How did I get here? Why is it just 2PM? Well, I mostly ran today!

Yesterday saw 8 miles of walking around but 0 net miles towards Rome, a lot of food and water, and hours more of rest time then I’ve had since starting this trip.   

Maybe it was that time off, maybe it was the potent combination of cheese, bread and red wine at dinner that has powered some great runners that have come before me*, but something broke inside of me this morning.

When I got to the long road for the day, I tightened all my backpack straps and my baseball cap and broke into a tiny jog. 

I felt a little soreness, maybe from climbing with my backpack to the cathedral yesteday, but it was a good kind, the growing kind. I feel like I must be getting stronger and more used to the weight of my backpack in my legs.

I have heard myself say since the beginning of this trip, in English and spotty French,

« I love to run but I can’t run with my backpack » .

Yet, one thing I really believe in is being careful about using the word « c*n’t ».

The poet Hafiz said,

« The words you speak become the house you live in ».

I think a lot about this, and don’t want to box myself in but talking too much about what I can’t or could never do.  

I feel like life surprises me everyday. My own abilities are no exception. How do I really know what I can and can’t do if I don’t try? So if I hear myself say « I can’t » I take it as a challenge like any other.

also, have been dancing around to a song from the band the 1975 for the past few days, called « give yourself a try » 

And so I tried, one step at a time, to run with my backpack. 

Once I found a rythmn it was like flying.

I’m sure my mile pace was between 11 and 13 minutes but no matter. The long flat road looked glorious. When I am running I have more ability to move forward without stopping, and that alone lets me cover more ground in a day. And crucially, instead of cars pulling aside asking me if I needed a ride, they sped on their way and I on mine, except for the occasional thumbs up. Cadence as a way of communicating what I was doing; this what I chose, and I’m not looking for an easy way out. 

*  http://www.modernathlete.co.za/stories/the-queen-of-comrades