A moment of Consideration.

It has now been a full week since I stepped off the plane in Hamburg. So where do the events that plagued my life last week leave me.....How do I cope with the loss of what was to be a summer of personal validation? Physical proof that I can anything if I challenge myself to take risks. Will I be able look at myself in the mirror everyday for the next month, even the next year and not regret my decision concerning the Camino? Did I give up to easily or allow fear to stop me from going after something I had dreamed about for years?

Not easy questions to tackle.

I spent the last week walking around the island. Visiting the local cathedrals, taking in the sights and sounds of the city streets- and exploring a history that I know nothing about. However fate seems to intervene when you need it the most- while walking around the city archives with Erika, we made a very strange discovery. Coming across a flyer marking pilgrims routes throughout Europe, we found that throughout my crazy journey- I never left the camino trail. Historically, Lubeck was a starting point for the Camino to Santiago de Compostela. The next stop, traditionally was Hamburg. ..huh..strange. From there - it was revealed that the pilgrims church sits right around the corner of our apartment- and furthermore the building which housed the pilgrims hostel is on our street. In fact this coming weekend there is to be an entire day reflecting up pilgrimage including traditional music, liturgy, and a blessing. Interesting.....

This put what I had considered on of my greatest failure's into far more positive perspective- which, at that point, I desperately needed. After reflecting a great deal on these revelations I came to several important conclusions....


Technically my pilgrimage has remained open. I never officially closed it when I left St. Jean- I am still registered. Each morning I walk by the church of St. Jakobi and visit the carved relief of St. James- I haven't given up yet. Just because it may take sometime to reach Santiago de Compostela does not mean I won't. At heart I am still on my pilgrimage and this has kept me going. My pilgrims shell remains tied to my backpack and credencial du Peregrino is tucked into my pocket. The events of last week were simply part of my personal Camino.

There is a great book written by Phil Cousineau entitled "The Art of Pilgrimage: the Seekers Guide to Making Travel Sacred". I had found this guide a few years back and to this day it remains one of my favorite books. I highly recommend it for anyone who enjoys a good adventure away from home. It is one of those books which aides in putting life's unexpected events in perspective. Why am I bringing this up? There is one passage in particular that sticks out - after which I promise to returned to the 'light-hearted sarcasm and banter that tends to plague my blog'-

"For the pilgrim traveling a great distance and at great personal expense, the image of a path coiling into a labyrinth as the destination nears is a powerful one. Fear, sacrifice, confusion, betrayal, theft, even death are the invariables travelers are loathe to think about. The sheer physical exertion of the thousand-mile walk to a saint's tomb can evoke strong emotions of resentment and doubt; the loss of money, passport or a travel companion can threaten a long-planned journey. You may have been given wrong directions, or perhaps were deliberately entrapped by con artists. Your baggage may have been misdirected and not returned to you for a week. You may feel savaged with disappointments about the people whom you are fated to travel on a group pilgrimage. Unaccustomed loneliness, unfamiliar food, unexpectedly kitschy architecture at the shrine you have dreamed of visiting all your life- all of these disappoints can result in confusion, frustration, and chaos that have been symbolized for centuries in the the image of the labyrinth.
And yet, as Aldous Huxley has written, "Experience is not what happens to you, it is what you do with what happens to you".
Ask yourself what form your clew* will be as the the inevitable darkness and dismay descend on your journey. Patience, silence, trust and faith are venerable qualities of the pilgrim, but more important is the practice of them.
No one has ever escaped the shadowy corridors of a labyrinth without them"

and with that I too will move on and keep navigating my personal labyrinth. I accept the challenge of its twists and turns and look the path in front of me, not the obstacles and walls behind me.

Thank you everyone for your love and support - I couldn't have made it around that last corner without you. It was a doozy. All I can say is Ulteya! -move forward with courage my friends-

Bon Camino
Susan






***the word clue comes from the old word clew. (yes it is not a spelling error on my part - hard to believe) Clew was the name given to the gold thread in mythology that Ariadne gave to Theseus so he might find his way through and back from the heart of the Labyrinth.

Fuite la France: Le Fini-

My flight to Hamburg lasted one hour and 15 minutes but really it felt like seconds. It was the first hour of full sleep I had in the last three days (the 15 minutes was basically spent being plied with liqueur...thank you Lufthansa)-

It was now the evening of June 18th. Stepping off of the plane I had my first breath of German air (and yes while the air here is not that different than the air in France the key word here is that it is GERMAN, and personally I have always liked the way the word GERMAN rolls off of the tongue- a nice JA sound...I digress, moving on) from here on out it was going to be smooth sailing. I would hop a transport to Lubeck, meet up with Erika and all would be well. Unfortunately you would think I would have learned my lesson by now and immediately found some wood to knock on - crazy of me thinking such thoughts.

I walked over to the information who informed me that I had just missed the bus going to Lubeck but another would be arriving at 10:30 pm, meaning I would arrive at my destination around quarter to 12. However if I choose to use the train system the ride would only take me about 30 minutes. Well- after taking a gander at the train map there was no way in hell I was going to attempt navigating that mess of lines without someone who knew the language. Bus it was- buying my ticket I found a phone and after several unsuccessful attempts at using the German public phone system i finally connected with mom. Quickly explaining that i was in Hamburg- I told her my bus was to leave at 10:30 and I would be at the bus station at Lubeck around quater to 12- Erika could connect with me there- pass the word along. Hanging up I walked out to my stop and low and behold there was a bus already there with my bus number on it....except that the side of the bus said Hamburg - Keil. Double checking my ticket I discovered the wrong destination was written on my ticket...WHAT THE HELL.

REALLY ARE YOU KIDDING ME. COULD ANYTHING ELSE POSSIBLY GO WRONG. I GIVE UP. THE POWERS THAT BE HAVE WON. I AM NOT GOING ON THE FLIPPIN' CAMINO - CAN WE STOP ALREADY WITH THE MISADVENTURES!

Sigh.

Walking back to the information desk I turned in my ticket...for nothing. Apparently the information desk was all out of paper tickets for the bus. I would have to buy my ticket directly from the bus driver which meant I was not entirely sure what bus number i was to get on...- I was handed back my money and back to the bus stop I went.

Around 10:20 a bus pulled up in front of me. Walking up to the bus driver- I asked if the bus was heading toward Lubeck and....to my pleasant surprise the man spoke English. Germany was beginning to grow on me. Onto the bus I went and promptly at 10:30 we were off. Once again I fell asleep. Before I knew it the bus was pulling up for its final stop ( we had three stops in different towns before Lubeck). Ok I am now in the same postal code as someone I know! Now hopefully Erika would be waiting for me.....

Getting off of the bus I looked around. Empty. I walked around the entire building just to make sure she wasn't sitting somewhere. Nope. Sighing I sat down on the nearest bench. Now what- should I try to call mom back? German phones worked differently calling collect and my success rate was not good. Actually, I never did figure out exactly how I managed to connect to her back at the airport. Blind luck? A half and hour went by ...no she probably wasn't coming. ....

and that was about the time when Germany soccer team decided to lose their first world cup game.

Yes I knew this not because I had heard it on some radio or seen the latest news report on a t.v. Oh no...I was informed by the mass amounts of angry drunk Germans that suddenly and without warning filled the bus station. When I say angry I mean the the bottle smashing,- are you talking to me- what did you say about my mom- type of angry. Anything to pick a fight...keeping my head down and my mouth shut I felt it was pertinent to vacate the premises...I really hoped Erika was not wandering around in this mess. The days of stress finally had severely lowered my tolerance for these types of situations and I could feel my stomach start to clench once again. Flagging a taxi down, i simply said Best Western? He nodded and off we went. Less than five minutes later we were pulling into the Best Western Aquamarine Hotel. Ok, I would get a room, call home and figure out where the chain of 'telephone' broke down. Walking into my room I collapse onto the bed and took in the moment.

Somewhere on this island Erika had a nice safe apartment. This would be the last night I would have to spend alone. I wouldn't have to worry where I would sleep - or how I was going to get funds. Even if I didn't connect with her tonight - there would be no question in the morning. Calling mom- this time the tears that came were one's of relief. I found out that Erika wasn't sure which stop I was at, which bus I was on - where I would be dropped off. But to be honest I was happy she had not ventured out into the craziness that had over took the populace of Lubeck at the moment. After some futzing around with addresses and phone numbers, it was determined that Erika would walk to the hotel in the morning- in fact she was about a 15 minute walk away.

I slept. Finally. and in the morning around 9 a.m. there was a knock at my room. Opening the door there stood Erika.

Thank you God Thank you God Thank you God.

I was going to be ok.

Fuite la France: Partie quatre

The ride to the airport took around 30 minutes...and 45 euro. I was down to five Euro once again. Unlike the previous cab drivers- the taxi i jumped into was driven by a man who was of the same opinion I was... basically Paris blows. After an abbreviated version of what had happened to me in the last few days- he made me a deal. If traffic was good I would pay whatever the price was to get there- it would be under 45 euro. If the traffic was bad and the price went over 45, he would cap it at 45 because I was to be the last fare of the day- and he had to go towards the airport anyway. Finally something was going my way.

As it turned out my cab driver was an import to France - His home was originally near Madagascar but as a young man he had come to France for a short work period and never left. However, he stated emphatically as soon as his youngest son graduates college, he and his wife would be migrating far away from Paris.

Don't worry- he told me- things will work out for you. Look at the glass half full,- he said- you are not dead and you are in my cab. I am no cheat.

He had a point.

My cab driver had been in the taxi business in Paris for 18 years. He knew the streets, had his regulars to support his work and made sure that each fare he took on was given an honest price for the ride. Honest work brings good fortune, He told me. Some of the new young cab drivers are only out to make a fast buck. They want to work five hours but make a full wage. This is not good for business, it gives good taxi drivers a bad reputation.

An honest cab driver in Paris- I though guilty- is like.... and quickly stopped myself from completing that thought. I had found one and that was really all that mattered.

Dropping me off at Terminal 1 (apparently the Paris airport had separate buildings for each terminal. there are 3 which I found out. When questioned which one I wanted to go to I decided to go to the one that was closest....which turned out to be terminal 1) which fyi looks like a large concrete doughnut... I thanked the cab driver and paid him the full 45 euro even though in only cost 39- and rushed through the sliding glass doors. I took a deep sigh of relief. From here on out at least I would have a safe place to sleep. People have to stay overnight at airports all the time, they had security, post offices, restaurants, lots of public phones, free bathrooms which were regularly cleaned, showers and fingers crossed- hopefully a Western Union.

I quickly walked to the nearest payphone and called mom collect. I was at the airport. I was safe. I would check on a Western Union in the terminal , have mom send money to right there at the airport and with that money I was going to get the quickest flight I can to Hamburg, Germany. I had made my decision and to me it was more of a compromise. I wouldn't go home, I would stay in Europe, and maybe even help out Erika get what she needed to get done. Once in Germany I could really take stock of how the rest of the summer was to proceed but first thing first-I needed to get money.

There was indeed a western union in my terminal, right down the stairs in the post office. YES! Walking down the stairs- I quickly found the post office and check around for an address for mom to wire the money to. I wasn't turning up anything, but I did see that the closing time was 6 o'clock. It was around 3 ish, wonderful that would give me plenty of time to work with. Walking up to the front desk I asked the bored looking woman behind the counter what numbers I needed to direct a transfer- no numbers she replied ..just yours. Uh ok...maybe it was just a general transfer to Western Union. As I walked out, something made me turn back to her to double check the closing time of the post office- 6 o clock right? No...she held up 4 fingers....oh GOD 4 O'CLOCK??? That gave me a just one hour to get everything straightened out. Ok fine I would just have to work fast.

I found a payphone right next to the entrance of the post officer. Calling mom - I was ready for some good news......I should have known better. Given the timing of everything, the money would not make the four o clock deadline if sent from Wisconsin. But if Alex sent it from Ohio online there was a slim chance we would make it.

After some serious networking on the other end of the phone- all of which i had to over hear but could do nothing but chew on my nails- it appeared the money transfer would go through but it would take one hour.... I looked down at my watch, it was 3:10. NO NONO NONONONO! It had to be ready in under an hour. Whatever - I was going to make this work for me- I told mom I would call her back when i had the money. Jotting down the transfer number I went back to the woman at the desk and handed her my transfer number. Entering some numbers into the computer - she rattled off something in French.

Gritting my teeth I ground out that I did not understand her, after all I had spoken to her in English before and she knew I didn't not understand french which I had told her not ten minutes ago- she replied in bored English 42 minutes till transfer is ready. I will make it right? I asked her - I close at 4 she stated. ...

According to my watch that left me a time frame of about 5 or 6 minutes extra. I was going make it. I went over to the hard yellow chairs outside of the post office door and began what felt to be a very long 42 minutes...about a half an hour later- I walked back up with my transfer number...16 minutes.....ok back in line...12 minutes...back in line....5 minutes...back in wait..what was she doing? SHE WAS CLOSING EARLY. She said 4 and it was still ten to- my transfer was just about to go through. I began to plead with her - please just 5 more minutes.

No I close at 4 she said.

But its only 3:50! she pointed to the post office clock which read 4 o'clock. There was no way she was going to help me. Once again the tears began to well up in my eyes, I was about to humiliate myself.

Terminal 2 she snapped out. What??

The post office in Terminal 2 does not close till 6. The tears in my eyes quickly dried and was replaced by rage. Homicidal images danced through my head as I imagined taking the stapler next to the counter and nailing my transfer number to her aorta. I could have avoided all of this waiting - I didn't have to have put my mom and my brother-in-law through the stress of rushing the money. I could have gone straight to terminal 2. Yes in that moment I realized I hate the Post Office Nazi with the passion of a fiery sun.

Breathe...go get your money I told myself- leaving the Post Office Nazi in my dust - I headed towards terminal 2...which was a 15 minute shuttle ride away. Ok onto the little shuttle I went. 15 minutes later I stepped off, checked my map for a destination and booked it across the terminal to the post office which was on the other side of the building. For those who are unfamilar with the Paris airport (which I feel I know now carry an inimate knowledge of) Terminal 2 is about the size of your average airport so it was not a simple trot down a hallway. 15 minutes of brisk walking later- it was now around 4:45 and I was standing in front of the Western Union ..Ok the money had to be ready.

Walking up to the ladies behind the desk - I handed the transfer number to a girl who looked like she would have serious issues if she walked through a metal detector. ...Grunting she tapped some numbers into the computer. And then squinted at the screen....now what? Speaking rapid french to the woman behind her I could only gather that she had screwed something up on the computer- the two of them entered a dialogue (none of which i could understand) in which there was much eye rolling, bickering and tapping on the computer. Finally I was asked to surrender my passport and state the answer to the security question. Done and Done.....over came my passport and more money than I had, had in what felt like years. It was going to be ok. I was going to get the hell out of France. YES! YES! YES!

Jumping back on the shuttle I headed back over to the concrete doughnut where Luftansa was based. I quickly secured a ticket for a soul ripping 560 euro for a 7 o' clock flight to Hamburg (yes if i had been through less in the last few days the price of an hour flight costing that much would have made me nauseous.. but apparently nothing could faze me anymore). Running over to the nearest trash can- I cleared my bag of all liquids, gels, and sharp pointed objects. I was not going to be able to check the backpack as baggage and it had to be in a certain weight. In to the trash went everything I could possibly get rid of including my sleeping mat- which i tried not to become upset about. Throwing the mat away meant there really would be no way I could go back to France and Spain this summer. However, I knew that deep down this is what i wanted to do, and had to do for myself. Steeling myself against the twinges of depression- I deftly tossed the mat into the trash bag.

A quick call to mom and through security to my gate, labeled 60-69 ( a specific one had yet to be assigned) I went. Throwing myself in the nearest chair I glanced at the flight bored...Hamburg...DELAYED.

Rolling my eyes- i came to the conclusion that somewhere along the line I had seriously pissed off some higher power- although wasn't adding a delayed flight on top of everything else overkill?? 30 minutes after the time I was supposed to be in the air- I was finally was ushered on board my plane- at this point this was the most relaxed I had been in days. I was leaving France- I leaned back into my seat and closed my eyes- Soon I would be with Erika- I would be able to get a clear head about my situation...all I had to do was connect with her somehow in Lubeck. After what I had been through, in my mind that would be the easy part......

Fuite la France: Partie Trois

I arrived in Paris around 8:40 the morning of the 18th. I had spent the last two hours dozing and waking up in a cold sweat thinking someone had stolen my camera case which contained the remainder of my money....I would not be able to receive anymore now until I obtained my passport. I had left the consulate post and their safety net, they would not be able to help me connivance the Paris wire transfers to give me anything with just a passport scan. I had to get that passport today. If it meant hysterics, sobbing and begging so be it. Unfortunately the possibility was still open that I would not qualify for an emergency passport- I had nothing to prove I was leaving the country in under to weeks.

Stepping off of the train I was engulfed in Paris rush hour. I was overwhelmed by the enormous train station, its crowd- and completely lost. The consulate woman said the embassy was easy to find - that it was a straight shot..... but out of which exit. I had no idea. I had never been this far into the city before and definitely not alone. Gritting my teeth I walked around the entire exterior of the station hoping that I would see an American flag somewhere- anything representing a United States presence. Nothing. I as going to have to ask for directions- and I knew the minute I opened my mouth I would be pegged as the obvious foreigner that i was. 6 people later who claimed they spoke no English... the sick feeling returned. Fine I as much as I hated to waste what little money I had...I would take a taxi.

4 taxis later...none of them new what I where I wanted to be taken. I unfortunately was not in the presence of mind to look up the word "embassy" in the mini french dictionary I had in my backpack. Finally I walked into the very glamorous looking hotel just across the street from the station. Going up to the concierge- I pleaded with him to look up and write down the address of the embassy...something I should have done prior to leaving the post in Bordeaux. Looking extremely annoyed, he begrudging did as I asked. ( In truth I think he didn't want to deal with a hysterical female, as once again I was near tears with frustration).

Taking the little slip of paper to the nearest taxi- I found myself speeding along with Paris traffic and 20 minutes later in front of the U.S embassy. Thank god- I had made it. It was all going to be ok.

Walking up to the officials at the gate I explained what I was doing there...the guard looked on the list and yes my name was indeed there. All right, so good so far. He filled out a yellow form that said UNITED STATES CITIZEN IN EMERGENCY SITUATION at the top. Ok good - they get I am in trouble. This is all very good. FINALLY.

He then pointed down the street- and said I had to drop off my things at number 18. ok. right ok down the street I walked to a large enclosed parking lot where I was handed a list of forms and searched. I was not allowed to take anything into the embassy for security reasons. Fine, whatever at least they would be locked up. Double checking that I had all my papers- from the handwritten numbers that I had taken down at st. jean- to the mass of paperwork from Bordeaux to the forms I had prepped for the day. Check, check ,check.

Back down the street I went to the original guard..glancing down at the paper that he, himself filled out he looked to see if my name was on the list...duh. Shockingly enough, it was.

Cool it Susan- stress brings out the worst in you. Don't piss anyone off here.

Through the gate i went, to another security point where I had to remove my watch and everything from my pockets...security reasons. Ok fine whatever. At this point I would rather be safe than sorry. Onward I went. ....To a couple of giggling women who appeared to be a few years younger than me. They had to be interns. One of them handed me a number and went on chatting with her friend..Um..ok.

Breaking into their conversation i curtly asked where exactly I was supposed to go or do with this number-

oh what are you here for - one of them asked-

My passport was stolen- oh they gave me the WRONG type of number. Handing me a new number they gestured to the doorway to the right. Cool necklaces one of the remarked as I walked by. Really ....awesome. Apparently the U.S. Paris embassy has been recruiting from Orange County. Ok now I was starting to get bitchy. Reel in the sarcasm a bit.

Through the door on the right I walked transported to what appeared a modernized version of Ellis Island. Over 70 percent of the crowded room was talking in a language other than English. Visas...I was in the same waiting room as those applying for visas. Well- that shouldn't be a problem as long as I can talk to somebody about my situation. Taking a seat I glanced around the room. Each wall contained 5-6 windows with full sheets of glass conversing them and little phones next to the window. Above each window was an electronic box flashing a ready number. Over a loud speaker numbers were methodically read off directing the holder to an assigned window....My number was C817....and we were somewhere between C 801 and B450. ....

I waited nervously organizing my papers- carefully paging through each one to make sure everything was in order for when my number would be called. An hour later the loudspeaker directed my number to station 16 .....Walking quickly up to window I picked up the phone.

What can I do for you a bored woman asked from behind the glass.

Uh...my passport was stolen? This was not what I expected at all. I had pictured a sit down with a consulate member much like Bordeaux. Why didn't they know who I was- the post had called ahead- my mother was supposed to fax my birth certificate- she said she had spoken on the phone with them... Why didn't they know who i was.. apparently they did, to them I was C 817......

Copy of Passport? Quickly I shoved the paper through the little slot at the bottom of the window. Form for New Passport? I flipped through my paperwork to find the sheets that the post in Bordeaux had helped me to fill out. Through the little slot it went.
Pictures?....pictures? Well the post said that the embassy would take care of that when I got there...
No pictures? Go get some, get a new number and get back in line........

WHAT! I didn't even know where to go for that - was I going to have to leave the embassy.

No- downstairs and take a right, there is a little booth. Make sure the pictures are good or we won't accept them. They cost 4 euro each.

Fine fine fine FINE....grabbing the paperwork the woman had shoved back through the slot I raced downstairs to the little photo machine.... Scanning the directions (Which were all in french) I quickly shoved the money into the slot and took the damn photos....8 euro poorer. I ran back up the stairs to the left where Orange County's Best were still chatting. One of them handed me a number which I quickly handed back reminding them I was here for a new passport I need one with a C not a B..- I grabbed my new number and went back to the chairs. C 820 not bad....

one hour later- My number was called. Back to window 16.

What can I do for you asked the woman behind the glass....

UH NEW PASSPORT

I handed her the required paperwork this time including the photos.

What happened to your old passport she asked.

IT WAS STOLEN FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.

Do you have a form for stolen passport?

Uh I have this police report stating it was stolen.

No, so you have the form for stolen passports?

NO why would I have one- nobody told me I needed one- I have been talking to consulate members for the last two days- I have been at this window before and NOBODY told me I needed this form. I don't even know where I should get this form.

Back came the paper work, along with it a new sheet. Fill this out, get a new number and get back in line.

THAT DID IT.

NO how about I fill this form out right here and you start processing my new passport.
She looked at me for a moment shrugged and said alright.

Huh...ok then. The form basically was the police report all over again. Where was it stolen? What were you doing at the time? What all was stolen? Have you made an attempt to recover it? YES YES YES ..Just GIVE ME MY PASSPORT.

Secondary identification? Um..No it was stolen too. Confused look from her end.

Look my mother has been calling this embassy- She was going to send money because I don't even think I have enough to pay for the damn passport at this point.

One second she says. Fine sure I just wait here because after all I HAVE NO WHERE TO GO.

Five minutes later she returned with another lady. Susan she asks. Um yes that would be me. I spoke to your mother this morning- the woman said -Great.- She says you should have enough money to pay for the new passport and that she wants to talk to you after you get it. -Awesome- I will connect you to her after you do this. Pay at window 20 and have a seat your passport should be ready in about 30 minutes. Ok, fine.

Over to window 20 I went- 100 euro and change later- I was down to 50 euro. Back to the chairs. 30 minutes later I was called to window 18. This time a very bored gentlemen asks me to swear that all the passport information is correct so help you God. Yes GOD HELP ME ITS CORRECT . over comes the passport. Ok the man says you can go now. uh....wait. I said -I don't have any money, I have no where to go, I was robbed! What about connecting me with my mother? I ask. Um and who told you this the man snidely said.

Who told me that.....she never gave me a name.

Uh, a woman behind window 16? I replied weakly.

Well he laughed unless you can give me more information than that I can't help you.

Please I beg I don't know her name but my mother called this morning....

And who are you, I don't know who you are- he interrupted.

Um..looking down at my passport, I'm Susan Kamholz. He just sat there in smirked. Screw this- walking over to window 16 I cut in line and Following me behind the glass the man was not amused. Looking at the woman behind window 16 I asked her to go get the other woman who I had talked to earlier- startled she did what I asked. Now the man looked angry- and pulled the woman aside-

oh yeah I was screwing this up.......

The commotion behind the glass windows must have caught the attention of the other woman because over she came- oh she said looking at me- do you want to talk to your mother? YES.

And who is she- the man snapped-

oh her mother is wiring her money and needs to talk to her, the woman replied.

Well why did she say so- he spat. UH i am pretty sure I did mention something to that effect. Perhaps I was not articulate enough.

Go to window 19.

ok ...window 19. There is no window 19. There is a door with 19 over it. Do I wait for my number to be called? Do I go through the door and risk getting in trouble? I stood there completely at a loss of what to do....five minutes later my name was being broadcasted over the loud speak to go to window 19. Ok that must mean to go through the door. Opening the door I walked into a small room with a glass window and a phone. A different man behind the window asked for the phone number i wanted to call- ....my mind went blank...what was my home phone number- oh god I was so stressed out I couldn't remember the numbers....breathe. Taking the piece he slipped through the little slot i jotted down the first number that came to mind and slipped it back.... and was quickly handed it back. This isn't a number I can dial that man snapped out. Looking down I realized I had written all the numbers backwards...they weren't even in the right order. Ok I had to calm down. Breathe Breathe Breathe.

Final the right sequence came to me - and I slipped the paper back to him. One moment.

Finally the phone on my side of the room rang. Picking it up I tentatively said mom? and through the phone came her voice. It was my breaking point.

The tears that had been threatening all day long came streaming down my face and I could barely talk. I have my passport I managed to say. I am done. I want to come home. The dream of the Camino had been chipped away at little by little until it wasn't anything to chip at anymore. I didn't care about how long I had planned this, about all the work and planning, and people supporting me. I wanted the hell out of France. I wanted to see familiar faces. I wanted to hear my own language. I did not want to be alone anymore. I wanted to go home.

Wait- my mother said. Just take a deep breathe. If you come home now you will regret it.

I don't care get me out of here.

Wait- my mother said. Just breathe. It will be ok. If you come home now you will lose that confidence in yourself. I know you don't want to be alone anymore. You have options. If the Camino is out go to Erika. Go to Germany.

Breathe Breathe Breathe. Ok Ok Ok.

I don't care - just get me out of France. Alright.

First though I needed money. I had the passport but no funds to do anything constructive. Unfortunately mom would not be able to send money for another 4 hours because it was too early for the Western Union to be open in the States. 4 hours...I had to wait 4 hours to get money. I had 50 euro.....it will be ok I can wait 4 hours. The nearest Western Union was within walking distance. What I was going to do with myself until then was a mystery. The people at the embassy made it abundantly clear that they did not want me hanging around now that my business was concluded and they really could care less what my problems were- they were already plugged back into the machine that was spewing out passports and visa's in an efficient and impersonal manner. They had moved on. ok. I would wait.

Hanging up with mom - we agreed I would wait for the money at the Western Union and think about my options. I would make the decision after I had received the money. Walking up the street to the Western Union- I realized several things-

A) It was going to be a very long four hours.
B) I had no way to get a transfer number.
C) I was afraid to spend any money on food because I was paranoid that the transfer wouldn't work
D) none of the cafe owners wanted me or my backpack around their business. Not that I could afford to spend the money to patron them anyway.

For an hour and half I wandered up and down the street. The small walk ways were crowded with a mixture of tourists, homeless, and what looked to be gypsies. I was on edge- fearing that I would be pick pocketed. I couldn't afford that- financially nor mentally. My back ached and the effects of sleepless nights were starting to set in. I leaned against a pillar and closed my eyes. Yes I was truly in hell.

...but in the midst of all this I retained some iota of myself.

SCREW THIS. I HAVE HAD IT.

My temper soared to the surface breaking through my pathetic pity party.

I HATE FRANCE AND THE HELL IF I AM GOING TO STAY HERE ONE MORE NIGHT.

With a new found energy I briskly walked over to the nearest taxi determined to make them take me where I wanted to go. I had 50 euro to work with- and damn-it, I was going to make that money work for me.

Throwing my backpack into the seat- I curtly said "Paris airport- si vous plait-" And as I probably looked rather deranged at that point, the cab driver didn't argue. I had a destination- and come hell or high water (I had experience them both in the last 48 hours) I was going to get the hell out of dodge.

Fuite la France: Deux

As the train traveled towards Bordeaux, my stomach was a virtual roller coaster. I was so afraid that I wouldn't get to the consulate in time before it closed for the day. What then? I didn't even know which direction to turn once leaving the train station.

Breathe.

Before leaving St. Jean I had the good sense to write down the address and phone number of the consulate on a piece of paper. I decided to take a gamble. Using the little money I had left - I would take a taxi. I did not want to risk getting mixed up on the light-rail or taking the wrong bus- I just didn't have the time to make another mistake.

When the train finally pulled into the train station at Bordeaux I hurried to the nearest cab. The rain had cleared and the temperature was beginning to rise but I didn't want to take the time to mess around with my rain jacket. Giving the piece of paper to the cab driver- who muttered something in french and nodded- I threw my backpack into the trunk and hopped in- 10 minutes later the cab halted in front of a large stone complex with french flags hanging from each doorway. This looked promising. The time was now around 2:45. I made it. Looking back at the address i followed the door numbers down a small alley way and stopped. No flags, no signs. just a small door with a ringer. This couldn't possibly be it. I stopped two french girls walking by- neither spoke English but I managed to communicate that I wanted to know if the building that i was in front of was the Embassy. The girls rang the buzzer and spoke rapidly - a woman responded with an emphatic "No, No, No...." This I understood. I was not in the right place. The girls took me by the arm and pointed down the street- on my piece of paper they wrote another address- one that said 89...I looked up at the door ....I was at 3. The consulate had moved.

The time was now 2:55 and I had a little over a half and hour- and no money. I was beginning to get very warm in the jacket but I ignored the heat....

Breathe don't panic.
-
I hurriedly made my way down the road...passing 30 ....50...60...70...85 -

the time was 3:10.

89.... but this looked to be some sort of a school. There were college aged kids hanging around the outside of the door. Where was the consulate. I was almost out of time! I looked up at the building for some sign that something American was attached letting me know where to go. In the far corner of the building was a small place with a head I recognized....Thomas Jefferson. Ok. It had to be here somewhere. Walking up to the group of kids at the doorway- I asked in a mix between both English and french where the embassy was- most of them just looked amused at my efforts. One of them finally replied -thank goodness in English- that it was at the end of the building down the alley- I nearly ran.

I searched that alley top to bottom and did not see anything resembling and embassy. Final I asked a man walking if he knew where the door was. He briskly nodded walked to the middle of the alleyway turned down another little alley way, stopped at a small unmarked door with a voice box- speaking rapidly in french he nodded towards the door - said 'second floor' and walked off. Confused but knowing at this point i really didn't have an alternative- I walked into the elevator waiting on the other side of the door hit the button for floor two . The elevator slowly moved to the second floor and opened........

to what appeared to be a hair styling school- there was a little sign with scissors and a hair dryer. Oh...GOD. It was 3:20.

Then the suddenly back wall of the elevator opened to reveal a security guard...who spoke french. But he pointed at me and said "Susan Kamholz?" YES!

Walking into the a very small office, he gestured to me to wait on the small leather couch next to his desk as he walked through a door at the other side of the office-... I wondered if they would let me crash on the couch for the night.....I took off my jacket and realized I was totally soaked from rain and the effects of the heat. My faced flushed because I knew I looked and smelled like of a seriously desperate crazy person....

Then like a breathe of fresh air I heard voices talking....MIDWESTERN ACCENT VOICES! Like one of them walked out of Fargo THANK GOD!

everything was going to be ok.....

Introducing themselves- they said that they had been in contact with my mother and that they were wondering where I had been. .....are you kidding me.

I had tried to reach this consulate several times at St. Jean and I never got an answer nor did they call the pilgrims office back to let me know they had received my voicemail. THE WRONG ADDRESS WAS ON THE WEBSITE....and they wanted to know where I had been.

Keep your temper in check I told myself- they are going to help you.

Well...they did sort of. Within minutes of me explaining what had happened several conclusions were reached.

A) I did not have a official police report stating what was stolen.
B)This was a post not an embassy and they could not issue emergency passports.
C) They might be able to help me get some money from Western Union but it won't be much because I had no official document saying who I was.
D) unless I was prepared to wait in Bordeaux for two to three weeks I would have to go to Paris
E) however- I was going to have to make my case for an emergency passport because the only thing stating that i was leaving the country was my flight from Madrid to London dated for July 26th well with in the waiting period for a normal passport- regardless of the fact that i had no alternative form of I.D and no money. Technically I was going to be walking out of the country..

oh god I wasn't done with this nightmare yet. ok don't panic.

After talking to mom with the gracious use of the consulate phone several things were decided

A) I would be going to Paris in the morning. (Just for the record the entire reason I originally took the ferry from Portsmouth to St-Malo was to avoid ever going through Paris. I hate Paris.)
B) The consulate woman would take me to the nearest police station to file a report
C) I may be able to get a secondary I.D. via faxing at the embassy in Paris.
D) the consulate woman would then escort me to the western union with report, and passport scan in hand and basically tell them to give me the money sent by mom.

I had a plan of action -

We arrived at the Police station around 4:30 ish- and it took about 45 minutes to create the report (no one spoke English and the consulate woman had to interpret everything)- we immediately went to the western union filed the necessary paper work and I received money. Enough to get me hotel room near the train station, a ticket on the 4:40 am train to Paris, and pay for my new passport.

My stomach while still in turmoil began to settle. It was going to be ok. Maybe I could even go back and still do the pilgrimage. Though the thought of going back to the place where this all began scared the hell out of me. Could I go back ? Did I even want to? I began to think of all the people I had told throughout this past year. How proud I was of myself for doing this walk. Could I give it up simply because I was too afraid at this point to do it alone? No. I was going to get my passport, march straight back to st. Jean and proceed as I had intended. The hell if i was going to let this guy beat me....

Heading back to the area of the train station, I was warned by the consulate woman while Bordeaux was relatively safe...the area of the train station was not. Don't walk around alone at night she advised, once you check in your room stay there. This made me falter a bit in my attempted rally. But really what choice did I have?

I made my way down to the train station immediately bought my ticket and headed for the best western across the street. Settling in I closed my eyes to catch some much needed sleep....and promptly woke up a half an hour later in a blind panic that i had missed my train.

No, there would be no sleep for me tonight. I could not miss that train.

The next morning, after a night of no sleep, I nervously walked to the train station at around 4 a.m. It was still dark and the station itself was locked which meant I would have to wait on the platform. As a I sat with my backpack next to me and my camera case clutched in my arms I prayed for everything to go well that day. For me to get my passport with no problems. around 4:15 a group of loud noisy guys entered the platform area...kicking over trash cans and shattering glass bottles on the sides of the station they made their way towards the benches where I was sitting. I immediately got up and made my way toward the station building ...luckily a gentleman dress in the gray uniform of a ticket taker was standing on the platform...I quickly made my way over to him...hoping that the group would simply pass by.

And with a few curt words from the man in the gray suit...they did. He glanced over my way and smiled. I personally was relieved. Was it just me or had this whole experience completely destroyed my self confidence of traveling by myself?

At 4:30 my train pulled up to the platform and to my surprise the man in gray followed me onto the train. He was the ticket man for my car. He showed me to my seat, helped me with my bag and found me a glass of water from the dinning car. I was the first passenger of the day.
I had three option at this point:

A) get my passport and attempt the Camino again.
B) Go to Erika in Germany
or
C) cut my losses and buy a plane ticket home to the states.

Settling into my seat, I sat back, closed my eyes and considered my options.

What did I want to yet accomplish
What would were the reasons pushing me to continue...

Was it because I still really wanted to walk the Camino at this point
or was it because I was afraid to face everyone back home....

fuite la France : partie un

For those of you not up on your french - title translation:

ESCAPE FRANCE PART ONE

eh? Many of you may be saying. But Susan aren't you supposed to be in day four of walking your epic 2010 pilgrimage? ...Many of you may be questioning. Well the tale is a bit long (not to be confused with tall) and therefore I have decided to pay my respects to the great tellers of suspense (nod/ thumbs up to Alfred Hitchcock, Orson Wells, and hell James Patterson) and all that encompasses the great misadventures of classic literature (the Odyssey, the Iliad, Gulliver's Travels, Rip Van Winkle to name a few and if you don't know any of these, I weep for your illiterate soul) that i will prolong (or maybe milk) the retelling so all who read may receive full extent of atmospheric ambiance. ....

We begin... the date: June 16th, 2010
the location : St. Jean Pied-de-Port, France

After successfully navigating France from the port at St-Malo *pronounced San Malou* ( from St. Malo, I took a train to Rennes, a bus to Nantes, another train to Bordeaux, another train to Bayonne -where i stayed the night in a seriously sketch hotel near the train station yes i put moved a table in front of my room door for the night- and finally an early bus to St. Jean Pied-de-Port) I found myself ready to tour the historic gateway of el camino Frances. Making my way from the bus stop to the Pilgrims office I went through the registration process, obtained my pilgrims passport which would allow me into the designated hostels, my shell to attach to my backpack identifying me as a pilgrim (important for the basque country) and various maps/literature to help guide my way. This was a bit difficult as only one person in the office spoke broken English but we managed between that and my broken French. With these official procedures out of the way I was led to the pilgrims hostel which unfortunately was closed for cleaning- I was directed to leave my backpack next to several other backpacks outside the hostel- this would allow me (as i discerned from the gestures of the pilgrims official helping me who did not speak English) to walk around the historic center unhindered by my backpack.

Now even though I had read that St. Jean was a notoriously safe area- very small town attitudes who tend to protect their heritage and take their duty of guarding those traveling the way of St. James very seriously- I did not want to take my chances. Throughout my travels prior to this moment I had separated my three credit cards, money, drivers licence, and passport between myself, my backpack, and my camera case (like any good traveler knows to do). However, faced with the prospect of leaving my backpack open to someone poking through it, made me nervous. I decided that for the next few hours I would carry everything between me and my camera bag.

Walking up to the old Citidal (pictures to be posted at end of trip because I unfortunately do not have my transfer chord) I toured the old walls and marveled at the spectacular view of the Pyrenees which I would be passing over the following day to reach my next destination of Roncesvalles. How exciting to be where so much history had taken place! From there I meandered down to a phone to let home know everything was well and actually three days ahead of schedule. After a chat with mom, I head up to the little cafe across from the pilgrims office which i had seen early to have a cup of coffee and a bite to eat. I met up with a Canadian couple I had talked to early on the bus who were very pleasant and I couldn't be happier- people to walk with in the morning HUZZAH! Fully sated the sky had clouded over and the mist which had been lurking for much of the day turned to rain. Not wanting my passport- which was in a white bag around my neck- to become wet I tucked it into my camera case - which after a moments consideration added my licence credit cards and money to so my bag would be organized and nothing would fall out. My pockets of the capri's that i was wearing were very shallow so I didn't want to risk my credit cards falling out or any money- so putting everything in the bag seemed like a logical choice. Briskly walking back to the hostel I grabbed my raincoat and decided the to walk down down to the 14th century church a stones throw away from the Pilgrims office, the cafe, and the hostel. I had passed it earlier and couldn't resist popping in to snap a few pictures and light a candle in memory of my dad whom in part was one of the many reasons i was walking - now settled I would have enough time to really reflect on what I was doing there and what I wanted to accomplish. In fact everything was on one medieval cobbled stone road named the Rue de la Citadelle convenient right? Once in the church i brushed the water from my jacket and sat down to pull out a euro to pay for the candle i had used earlier. Unhooking the top of the camera bag and reached down for the white satchel....

and that was when I was sent to what can only be described as my own personal hell.

The bag was gone. Not there. Absent. Time slowed down the world didn't really exist.

Then I snapped back to reality and realized I had to move quickly and efficiently. I retraced my steps throughout the church. Not there. I ran back to the cafe-not there. I tried to communicate what I was looking for to the couple behind the counter who had served me my coffee. They did not speak English and I was butchering my French. No they had not seen a white bag. I ran back to my backpack- maybe it had dropped next to it when i grabbed my jacket- nope. As I made my way to the pilgrims office, I ran into the Canadians- understanding the dire circumstances immediately they followed me to the pilgrims office where I frantically tried to explain that it was a real passport i was missing not the Credencial del Peregrino (Pilgrims Passport). One of the Canadians spoke french and helped me do this as once again only one spoke English. From there we again searched the road for any sign of the white bag - it was only a field of about 100 to about 150 feet from where I had been from the last time I seen the bag and total of about 20-30 minutes since the cafe. Nothing. I searched garbage cans, corners, and the Canadians asked in the three shops with in the radius of where i had been. Nothing. Don't worry the pilgrims office assured me- it will be turned in to the office of tourism....go there. I and the Canadians made our way down to the office where we were told no it would be turned into the police station lost and found. We quickly went and checked. Nothing. We then went directly to the police who wrote it down on a post it and sent us on our way.

By this time I was starting to lose what little calm I had and the nature of the situation really began to hit me. I an American (believe me in this day and age not a perc), with no identification other than a digital scan of my passport on my email, and no money or credit cards. Don't panic.

The pilgrims officials helped search my things on the outside case that I would have maybe shoved it in a pocket and forgotten. Nothing.

I had really screwed up. My dream of walking the Camino- a dream that I had been nursing for five years was started to fade. Spain was not going to let me in the country, I was stuck in France.

Remain calm. Think. Don't panic.

....call mom, call the bank, call an embassy. Using the land line at the pilgrims office I attempted to get ahold of someone who not only spoke English but could help Only I had problems connecting to the United States. After about 30 minutes finally I got through to mom who immediately began work on finding out what i had to do for a passport and where i could get money from a western union. I called the bank. Dead ends all the way around. Night was setting in and I didn't even have enough money to buy a piece of bread. The pilgrims officials let me have dinner with them- an promised I could stay at the hostel another night if need be- *remember only one of them spoke English*. Don't worry, I told myself things will work themselves out in the morning.

I didn't sleep.

The next morning I watched as the pilgrims around me set off for the Pyrenees in the steady rain. I would not be going with them and it damn near broke my heart. I considered how far I had come - trains, buses, even a transatlantic voyage. The planning, the fundraising and the generosity of my friends back home who helped me get here. I felt physically ill.

No. Don't Panic. Don't give up.

As soon as the office opened I immediately checked my email for news from mom. Not good.

I need an I.D. of some sort to get money from western union. They would not just accept a scan, not that I had a printer to get a scan- and the officials didn't know where i could access one.
I needed to go to an embassy to get a passport. The nearest one was Bordeaux.
I was going to have to leave St. Jean somehow but I didn't have any money for a train ticket.
I had nothing but a two sets of clothing and gear suitable for walking.

I was in trouble. I felt this person stole from me, stole everything I had in the world at that point- essential my dream. This summer that was meant to be a turning point in my life had exploded into my worst nightmare.

However.....

Even when things were as awful as they were at this point, and it seems like the world can't get much worse- somebody proves that a giving soul does still exist and then things don't seem so bad. The pilgrims office managed to scrap together 50 euro (it is not a money making institution and is run by volunteers) and my Canadian friends pitched in 20 euro. Enough to get me to Bordeaux with five euro to spare.

With tears in my eyes I thanked my new friends and the office. Moving through the rain to the bus station, I have to admit I was afraid. No I.D., five euro and bus ticket to Bordeaux.

As the bus pulled out of the station the rain began to fall harder- the rivers began to rise- the roads began to flood. I felt so alone and I was starting to panic. What if if the bus gets stuck and I miss my connection, what if it gets swept away? I won't be able to be identified. I have nothing proving who I am. An hour later the bus pulled into Bayonne station- here the streets were flooded too. No phones to call home. Worse the train to Bordeaux was delayed because of the rain. What if it gets canceled? where will i stay? The consulate in Bordeaux closed at 3:30 pm it was now around 11 my train was supposed to get in at 1:50 but now it was an hour behind.

I was now soaked - and when i finally got on the train to Bordeaux I was looking at the prospect of not having a place to stay that night and not enough money to call home.