Saltworkstudio Florence: I go to some art museums

Venus picks lice out of Cupid’s hair— Pitti Palace

Florence forbids selfie sticks in museums. I don’t own one anyway, but I am starting a self portrait series all in reflections: mirrors, glass, windows, shelves. Viewing centuries of portraits, I want to make a few of my own. Because of this cruel restriction on self-documentation, some enterprising soul has started a Selfie Museum, where all you do is take selfies.

Mirror portrait, with mirror flaw on nose. Pitti Palace
The selfie museum is one I can skip

My head is in a spinning vortex of art. I am thinking all the time as I view, and it really makes me dizzy. My next blog post will have some of my ideas as an artist on all the art I’m seeing, and some thoughts on ancient art, the Renaissance, and Italian modernism, but for now I ‘m just sticking my toe in the water. I have now been to the Uffizi, Pitti Palace, the Novocento Museum of Modern Art, the Archeological Museum. I’m falling behind on my churches.

I found I really like the Pitti Palace, and the Uffizi. The Uffizi is completely beautiful in its gallery rooms, clean and modern, with 19th century corridors that access the modern rooms. I’ll get serious about the art later. In the Pitti Palace, it’s the old ways. The pile up of paintings creates a deep scrapbook or collage effect. The paintings talk to each other. Often it just gives you visual indigestion, but really, paintings love to be with other paintings. Painting loves sculpture and vice versa. From the Uffizi corridor, or connecting hallway, I viewed sculpture with paintings hanging above, and these irreverent, collage-type thoughts entered my head.

Speaking of pool boys, this city is chock full of naked guy sculptures. I was going to head up a blog post with that, but thought I might get censored. My friend Kalia said that she sort of got “Virgin toxic overload” in Florence. I am experiencing Naked Guys overload. I haven’t even been to see the famous David. I figure 25 smaller naked guys might equal one David. I thought of doing a series called “Florence as Seen Through the legs of Naked Guys,” but soon abandoned it because it was too easy. I did get a few photos, though.

The Uffizi is like an art book came to life. As an artist, you enter a wonderland— down the rabbit hole. I am going three times, so I’ll focus on it later. I got there really early in the morning, for the 8:15 AM opening; you need reservations and advance tickets. I managed to sprint ahead to a few rooms for near-solo time with the Botticellis. The sun rises past 7:30 here so here’s what you see at dawn outside the Uffizi.

Outside the Uffizi, dawn
3-D Leonardo contemplates renovation work and a 2-D Giotto. There’s an art pun in there

For now, I offer you a candy box of paintings from the Uffizi. See any old favorites? Don’t eat too many. I am making light of this because I feel dizzy all the time, close to laughing or crying. It’s my messed up sleep schedule combined with art flooding and the uncertainty of travel. It’s like I have to be two or three people because I’m alone, if that makes any sense. What a garden of delights. Florence is a treasure house, guarded by the curled and sleeping dragon of jet lag, and the weight of centuries of genius. I’m trying to snatch a coin or jewel from the lair.

Stumbling into Florence

Arno at dawn, in front of the Uffizi

I have arrived. Travel is related to art; both involve living on the edge of cliffs. The more you don’t know, the more exciting it is, for better or worse. Lurching into Amerigo Vespucci airport after 3 flights, I felt that molasses-like buzz of jet lag, exhaustion, and stress sweat. It was 16 hours of wearing a mask on Iberia air, which still requires masking in the plane, and my nose and throat were sore from rebreathing my mask air. It was night and there was a long line for taxis outside. I was having credit card problems that concerned me— would I be able to get cash? (More on this later.) And I was traveling alone, so no one was there to share the decision-making burden.

It all started to go right for me when I decided to take the T2 tram into the center instead of depending on the taxi to deliver me to the door. I had small luggage and was mobile, so I could walk to my place from the end of the tram line. Feeling lost, I did a travel trick and picked out an appealing stranger to follow. He was a chubby, friendly man carrying a musical instrument and he was heading toward the tram. He helped me buy a ticket— turns out he was English and I had no idea. He laughed when I told him I followed him. I was able to give him some advice as well. These “angels” are everywhere, but it involves giving up control, using your intuition, and asking for help.

Immediately, I was in lovely laughing Italy. The door closed and the car filled with people talking, singing, shouting, living. I was out of the commercial tunnel of air travel at last. At the end of the line I walked out with my little rolling bag and small purse pack into this scene. Sometimes you have to give up control, then a “flow” starts, and you are in the place, not thinking about it or struggling with it. Do you know what I mean?

Walking by the Duomo on arrival

This psychedelic setting encouraged me— it was like wandering through a dream. Vendors were shooting luminous fairy lights high into the air and they drifted down the sides of the green and white fantasy cathedral like wired angels. I arrived at my studio apartment, my little refuge for my time here.

Truly a home: books, magazine, a well stocked kitchen

My guardian spirit for this trip is Dante. He is everywhere in Florence, so that’s nice for me, because I want to be everywhere in Florence. I am collecting Dante images. The church of Santa Croce, where the young lovers in E.M. Forster’s “Room with a View” met, is steps away, along with Dante and Very Big Kitties. It was just a brand new suburban development when Dante was in town.

Outside Santa Croce church
Your Random Art of the Day. I won’t attribute, but I saw it. I’ll be sprinkling these through the posts.

The credit card fiasco? I figured it out, but here is your travel tip, Americans… know your credit card 4-digit PIN numbers. No, not your debit card PIN which you use all the time, the ones for your credit cards. No, not your 3-digit secret code which you also use all the time. Scott had to wire me cash with Western Union, which made me feel like I was a teenage backpacker. Even then, I never had money wired to me! The credit cards are fine now, but for the first time in years I am walking around with strange cash in my wallet. On the travel edge, again. It’s beautiful to have cash. The Euro is now the same as the dollar. This lunch “menu of the day” , written on a blackboard in a neighborhood bar, cost me 16.5 Euro/bucks total: salmon, fennel, glass of white wine, bread, espresso and small dessert. 1 Euro tip. Paradise, with some sword-and-cliff edges to get there.

The bread, post-Covid, now comes in little paper bags for less hand-touching.
Gnocchi with crayfish (see the claw crawling out) at a local student cafe, 7 Euros. Dante notebook open behind.

If you want to read more travel writing, and more of the Over Underworld sketch/myth series, simply scroll down, and feel free to comment here, right on the blog, or in all the social media things. It’s nice to know that people are reading!

Secrets of the Carlton Arms Art Hotel

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A short hallway becomes a miniature cityscape.

We stayed in the Carlton Arms in New York City, and by chance, we got to see a wide variety of rooms twice: once when we needed to choose a new room because our room was needed as gallery space, and once with the New York Adventure Club tour.  Since we saw more spaces than are normally available to show– the hotel cannot show rented rooms–  I thought I would share them with you, with photos not included in my other Carlton Arms post.  We were also privy to some myths, legends, and secrets of the hotel…

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Astonishing “neon” murals done in paint alone

Our room had an entire quilted graphic narrative around the molding.  We were actually staying inside a story.  We took some time to read it, and to see how themes were reinforced around the room.  By the way, it was a quiet and cozy room.

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The story was that of an immortal energy-soul as it evolved toward a specific heaven.

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Panorama storyline part one.

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Panorama storyline part 2, showing a rainbow enlightenment at the end.

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Plaster bas-relief wall sculptures in our room

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Me at the end of the Egyptian-themed hallway outside our room.

The hallway was a real marvel.  It was done in the 1990s and is still beautiful.  Whether or not the artist achieved fame, she created a place of lasting amazement and beauty.  If I could make an artwork that made hundreds of people happy over a few decades, I would be delighted….There was one door that had a painted warning on the outside, very aggressive, with the message that a trans person had done the art inside.  It was a “Beware, be afraid, yea who enter here” sign.  But when you stepped in the room you entered a strange paradise.

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An undersea, tentacled fantasy.

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Central image of the room

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The photos don’t really do justice to the strange beauty of the room.

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Painted mirror frames. Most of the furniture was painted so that the effect was seamless.

I was reminded of our visit in Rome to the Villa Borghese, with its intersex sculptures, a favorite of the then-pope– equally beautiful, and unsettling.  The hotel manager says that they try to be sensitive to the needs of the clients; this room is not necessarily recommended to those with young children.  The hotel tries to give guests the choice of available rooms.  Here is a secret: check in early in the day to get a choice of rooms in your price category.  The staff is extremely nice and will help you find the right space. The hotel has 54 rooms in its largely unrenovated, walk-up building.

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Near the lobby was a bar area that could re-morph into a hotel room with the addition or removal of the beds. The beds were very comfortable, with excellent mattresses on top of a more portable folding frame.  The rooms are redone by new artists every 3-5 years or so, and displayed in a one-night only opening in March as art exhibits. The very next day they are returned to hotel rooms!

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Scott and I in the “bar” room. The bed will be removed for the art opening night.

The hotel offers residencies to artists to re-do rooms, and has an annual art show to display them.

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Scott is either flirting or animating- not sure which!

The Carlton Arms has many secrets.  Since it is has been a hotel now for over 30 years, they downplay the colorful past of the SRO days (single room occupancy).  So many people seem afraid to stay here, and indeed it is not for everyone. Their primary clientele is now European.  Scott and I stayed in a room with a shared bath and we never needed to wait. I give it high ratings for a feeling of coziness inside a huge city.  You get to live inside art itself. And there are cats too.

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Poster for the 2019 Artbreak Hotel Opening

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Topsy, one of the hotel cats.

 

The Banksy Down the Hall

The Banksy on the first floor of the Carlton Arms Hotel.

The Banksy Down the Hall

I’m staying at the Carlton Arms Hotel in NYC, Gramercy. Stepping out of our first room and walking toward the shared bath, I encountered a bear politician, Elvis-Mickey, and a stick of dynamite in a ballot box. It’s the Banksy near the bathroom.

Banksy detail

These days are upon us, again.

I thought this light switch might have been a Banksy, but it was painted by a transgender woman with a great sense of humor.

The Carlton Arms is not an art hotel; it’s a hotel for artists. Any artist can tell you that though they find a place rich and evocative, that taste is not necessarily shared by the general public. Artists love an edge. When I had a studio at the Barracks, an old naval airbase complete with a creepy overgrown bunker, I loved it. But it was quite difficult to get patrons out there, even for open studios. It was just a bit too intimidating.

Fourth floor Egyptian themed hallway, where we moved from our first floor room; the room was needed for a gallery show.

The bubble wrap ceiling

So what I’m saying is that the hotel is not for everyone, and doesn’t pretend to be. It’s in a largely unrenovated 1880s building, with 54 rooms tied up in a tangled net of pipes and architectural elements. There are two cats who will visit in your room, and astonishing art, everywhere. It’s like wandering around in a building made of artist’s neural pathways and memory banks. It is literally and metaphorically held held together by paint, a living body made of art. And so it shocks, delights, and inspires, because it is art.

One of the two or three hotel cats visits our room Sign near the street level entrance

The coffee room raccoon says hey

The hotel’s colorful past is carried forward into the future by yearly shows, where rooms are transformed into art installations, then returned to lodging spaces. The hotel staff were friendly and gracious. They allowed us to tour unoccupied rooms during a lull between checkout and check-in

First room we had, first floor near lobby Inhabitants of all species Inside a room

Magical “neon” murals that glowed, all paint. We had never seen anything quite like them.

Inside a room

Beauty, humor and anguish are everywhere.

Our charming “Hygge” room (my name for it) on the Egypt floor, 10D. More doileys, lace, handwork, Scandinavian style. Charm and giant cookie burgers, plus instructions on life. The top moldings are all quilted fabric art cartoons.

Our spectacular hallway.  The rows of face masks mounted as pharaohs are the manager and workers in the hotel.

Our hallway. You can see me at the end

Room of purple mirror walls

An encounter

Hotel life problems

I’m not doing a travel hotel review here. I am so tired of yelp-style critiques. We love it; we are temporary dwellers in a living history. Tonight a chapter of the NY Adventure society tours here. On Thursday the latest Artbreak Hotel art installation and opening reception is happening . I’m climbing 64 stairs to our room, and I’m awed that this is still here. Also, clearly, Carlton Arms Hotel knows who the heck Banksy is.  Thanks, Carlton Arms.

Flatiron building , near the hotel

Eclipse, Fire, Beauty, Eclipse

Beauty

“What imagination seizes as beauty must be truth.”  John Keats

I painted Beauty in early August, shortly before the total solar eclipse, which we caught in John Day, Oregon.

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Watching the solar eclipse from John Day, Oregon

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Beauty, Suzanne Edminster, acrylic on board, 16″ x 20″

The eclipse was a summer zenith of awe, cosmic mystery, and great American road trip.  Scott and I met up in Portland after I finished taking a painting workshop with Jesse Reno, and took off from there into the high desert of central Oregon.

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Jesse Reno working in his True Measure Gallery, Portland, Oregon

 

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Our eclipse camp in John Day.

 

My painting Beauty, with images of teeth shining as if for a selfie, a band-aid on a cheek,  scratches and boo-boos,  precariously balanced on a tipsy pedestal, and a sort of sweetness in her mismatched eyes,  is how I have felt for nearly six months.

In October we were caught in the devastating Santa Rosa wildfire.  Thankfully, our home and my studio were not harmed, though Scott’s place of business was badly damaged.  In December I tripped and fell on cement and hurt my face under my cheek, just like Beauty, who was painted in August. I am recovering from pneumonia in my left lung. And on the day of the Blue Blood moon, the second moon of January and a total lunar eclipse,  our cat Nora was killed by a car.  From eclipse to eclipse, it’s been a wild ride.

Sometimes paintings hold the future.   Beauty’s  childlike sweetness and  humor made me smile between the eclipses, through precarious times.  Seize that beauty.

I’ll be sharing new paintings and exploring ideas in more depth in my upcoming Tinyletters. 

“The pursuit of truth and beauty is a sphere of activity in which we are permitted to remain children all our lives.”  Albert Einstein

Spiritual Congruency and Road Trips

 

Road to Ojai Foundation
Road to Ojai Foundation

On our road trips last summer, Scott and I developed an idea we called “spiritual congruence.”  Every place, every direction we headed, every style of experience– from rough travel to luxury— moved either toward greater congruity with the flow or time or what was needed… or away from it.  For example, spiritual congruence on a camping trip might produce a campsite like this one, on the Olympic National Park peninsula.

This was a campsite that “just happened” to be open in the busiest campground in the National Park, just when we needed it, without reservation.

Behind our campsite, Olympic National Park
Behind our campsite, Olympic National Park

We first invented the term when we landed at a cabin that looked great on Yelp, but felt really soulless. It was expensive and unsettling… it was supposed to be the “honeymoon cabin” but it was coldly over-decorated in black and grey, graveyard colors, an attempt at modernity and elegance that failed and became merely frigid and depressing. We had hoped for a cozy, kitschy, pine paneled little place. We were surprised at how disturbing it was.  After all, we had weathered true travel crises with equanimity and humor.  But the vibe was bad.  We started talking about it.  There was no congruity with who we were or what we wanted from the trip.  We sacrificed a hundred bucks, took the hit, and checked out.

The last time we experienced this deep disquiet, an anxiety bordering on fear, was on another road trip when we were heading to the Badlands of North Dakota.  We wanted to see Mount Rushmore.  As we drove, an overwhelming oppression enveloped us.  It was so profound that we decided to cancel our trip.  We checked into a motel, where we both had nightmares all night, and turned right around the next day.  Perhaps it was the blood-soaked, coal-ripped country around us, the country of so many Native American massacres.  Or maybe the earth itself was bleeding from strip mining.

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Spiritual congruence is a flow state where outer world and inner move together. We got up before dawn to go tidepooling on Beach  4; light, water, and tidal treasures.

Sometimes it doesn’t come too easily.  We were only 10 miles away from Dungeness Point, yet could not find fresh, cooked, whole crab for a whole week.  We only found overpriced restaurants with crab salads and such.  I even tried crabbing, with no luck!  We finally found a roadside stand after hard searching.  We cracked our crab congruency and ate it without butter on paper plates… ahhh.

Sometimes you can make your own little snail shell world so you can be spiritually congruent on the beach even on a rainy day. This setup of campfire in a can, beach shelter, and lowboy chairs makes even a windy, cold day a beach day.

My beloved "campfire in a can"
My beloved “campfire in a can”

 

I am very interested in those states where, even where there might be discomfort, there is a larger flow or current of rightness, agreement, moving together: spiritual congruency.  How can our little lives be folded in like egg whites to the cake batter of the wide and glorious world?  I sense it more in travel than in my daily life.  But it must exist everywhere, in minor and major states of grace.  I think a lot about how to make my life more like the road trip it really is.

Orange wall, purple boots, and an open studio
Orange wall, purple boots, and an open studi

I am open for Art Trails this year in Studio 33 one more weekend, on October 17 and 18.  Come visit.  I have the Camino notebook pages up, and have decided to take the plunge and make a book.

 

Camino Questions, Part One

20140711-065444-24884971.jpgI think I opened Pandora´s box when I asked for questions! Here we go.  I´m loving Porto… parts of it remind me of Naples.  And it´s warm, so to sit out on the roof terrace at night, surrounded by lights, is a great pleasure. The first photo in the post is from the terrace at night; I´ve enjoyed three nights of this.

 

Was there anything you would have done differently to prepare for the Camino?

I think I was okay with my prep.  I started training in January for a June departure.  The best thing I did was to learn how to use trekking poles properly. This sounds simple, but it´s not intuitive.  Though I´ve had an ACL operation on my left knee, and my ankles are vulnerable, I had no trouble at all with joints or muscles.  I used little leather kayaking fingerless gloves with the poles and that enabled me to use the pole straps easily and well.  I saw a lot of people using two poles improperly.  Don’t bother to buy them right before your trip.  If you don´t practice with them so you are comfortable, it will provide no benefit. In the future I would BRING A SMALLER PACK.  I found that my 45 liter plus pack was on the large side.  Everyone always brings too much gear and has to leave some behind.  I was so jealous of people with smaller packs.  Mine, however, was smaller than some.  Don´t go for superlight weight at the expense of comfort.  Do not bring anything that is the slightest bit uncomfortable.  Don´t bring dressup clothes… you won´t use them, not even a skirt.  Buy something new when the Camino is over.  Ladies, one nice scarf, one pair of earrings (I broke two pairs underway) or your one piece of jewelry, and a lipstick or eyeliner will make you feel like a queen.

The best things I brought was my iphone, a Joby Gorilla bendy tripod with a phone holder, and a full-sized Brookstone folding wireless keyboard.  I didn’t need an ipad with this setup, and I didn’t need a camera.  It also made strangers come up to me all the time and take notes on the setup! I brought a semilarge sketchbook and was happy with that, a small set of watercolors.  I liked having a sarong along as a towel, privacy shield, scarf, skirt, blanket, picnic blanket, and so on. Many Europeans carry a smaller pack and a larger waistpack.  I used a larger moneybelt in front, under my shirt for easy access, for passport, credit cards, cash and phone.  You may not like the look of a waistpack, but they are secure and very practical.  Don´t carry your phone in your pocket, loose.  Zip it away routinely somewhere.

 

Hey folks, the Camino is COLD in the summer.  Bring an extra layer.  I would bring a light Merino wool top and leggings…. spiffy long underwear… at any season.  I only brought one pair of pants and the leggings… worked well.  By cold, I mean in the 40s and 50s.  Even if you don´t use them in the warmer parts, you will in the mountains and Galicia. To really prep, you have to hike a lot with your pack and your boots, with a fully loaded pack and poles.  By the way, I wore runners, and did okay, but I wish I had taken boots.  This was not necessarily for ankle support, but because parts of the trail are quite rough and stony underfoot.I felt I had to be careful as I walked of the bottoms of my feet.  But you have to decide for yourself. I had two blisters once, then not one other the whole trip.

 

BRING A GOOD PAIR OF WALKING SANDALS as your alternates.  I took adjustable Tevas.  Don´t bring flipflops… I met at least 4 people who threw them out and had to buy better sandals in Spain, because your feet swell and can need pampering and support after walking.  I also enjoyed having a somewhat hardier daypack than the ultra super flimsy ones… I got a packable one by Eagle Creek.  Also, all the Europeans have little ultralight synthetic sleeping bags that pack to the size of a liter of water.  They are not common here, but my Marmot nanowave 55 was quite similar.  Your sleeping bag should weigh under two pounds. If you are older, or a larger person, your pack will be bigger.  I bought an Altus poncho, which is a raincoat with a hump in the back that goes over your pack, in Spain, and I loved it.  They are not made commonly in the USA yet.  You can buy an Altus and a sleeping bag in Europe before you start.

Take MORE TIME and more money than you think you need. This is standard travel advice, of course, but be willing to be flexible with what your ideas are for the Camino.  You probably will want to or have to change plans.  I didnºt reserve anywhere and was glad.  You can always use booking.com a couple of days before.  Walk at your own pace.  You´ll see folks doing 40 or even 50 kilometers a day.  Let them. Use your smarts and intuition to tell you where to start and end.

Is it better to go alone or with another? It depends, of course, but I have so say that for sheer contemplative time, going alone is great.  You have to be in tune with your hiking partner.  Many women go alone.  It is just interesting to go alone with your thoughts and your conversations with the Beyond.  It is very safe for women, especially if you are not in the first bloom of youth. Apples and oranges, alone or together:  It´s your Camino.       20140711-062631-23191604.jpg Most useful gear: a set of around 8 large safety pins to use as clothespins, and an elastic travel washline. You need the pins to keep your clothes on the line when thery´re hanging out a third story window or whipping around in an alpine wind, and you can use the pins to pin the still damp clothes to the outside of your pack. I prefer thick hiking socks and they take a long time to dry. I took a small shred of beatup towel to use first to dry my body, then throw on the slippery floor to stand on. All the showers are tile and tend to be dangerously slippery. I carried a regular old bandana everywhere and used it for so many things. Often bathrooms have no soap or paper towels.

Mentally or emotionally, what would I have left behind? It´s easy to whip out pat answers to this one. You need a lot of patience with yourself and others, and to leave judgement of yourself or others behind. I saw a lot of folks get into trouble with a competitive feeling, especially when you´re older and less fit and comparing yourself to athletic youngsters. But I will rant a bit about an attitude that caused me personal problems. This may not sound very spiritual. I wish I could say something more enlightened-sounding.

The thing that caused me big trouble was  taking a tourist approach to Camino lodging rather than a pilgrim approach.  The pilgrim approach is to take what is there, be grateful for shelter and company, and to laugh off any problems the next day.  After all, it´s only one night.  You don´t have to rush or reserve or prefer or angle to choose a better place.  You know God is taking care of you: trust.

The tourist approach is to read ahead, to plan, to try to figure out what might be the best place.  Of course, you want to stay somewhere that is not horrible.  But most hostels are fine.  I found that when I tried to pre-read, angle, plan, or consider reserving, it did not do me any good at all.  Rather, the opposite occurred:  I became critical, pissy, and discontent with what I got.

I am not even sure planning has that much to do with it.  I am sitting here in an exsquisite townhouse hostel, a Porto villa from the 1800s, and I am only here because it was the only one that kept popping up on Booking.com, not among my first choices.  I personally wish I could have left this demanding, deserving, entitled feeling behind.  As a pilgrim, you take what is there, and you are SO HAPPY just to stop walking.  My worst mental problems came from confusing being a pilgrim with the comforts of 21st century tourism. True hospitality is so simple.

The Inner Camino

I’m sitting here in the Santiago bus station, waiting for the express bus to Portugal. I thought I’d take a moment to share with you some thoughts about my Camino. I made a list of reasons to walk before I left, and reflected on them as I walked. But I’m one of the lucky ones. Two of the main reasons I walked were out of gratitude for my beautiful life, and for enjoyment.

People walk for many reasons. Many are in the midst of personal catastrophe, change, or deep loss. I met a woman who, in the midst of recurring cancers, was left by her husband for another woman. She had never been alone in her life, having married young. Her pain was tangible, but walking seemed to be keeping her positive in a way nothing else could. She said in amazement, “I still have my life. ” Another man carried the picture of his wife on the back of his pack. She passed away a few days before their 50th wedding anniversary. He was walking joyously in her honor. Several people were carrying remains of loved ones with them.

This post has now crashed twice on me, and I’ve lost blocks of writing. But I’ll try one more time to continue.

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Dear readers, could you help me out by posting questions in the comments column? I am feeling like Someone doesn’t want me to write right now. According to my experimental theory of staying in the flow, this means I should stop writing and do something else. Go ahead, ask me any question you are curious about: packing list, physical aspects, emotional questions. Be personal. I’ll answer everything in the next post, and share more about my inner Camino. Please help me out, and I’ll answer all in the next post. Buen Camino, Suzanne

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Greetings from the End of the World

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I’m writing you from my favorite cafe at the end of the world, a cheery place to counteract all the endings. Seagulls shriek, cry, bark, howl, meow, and moan; I’ve never heard anything like it, all day and all night. A person with too much imagination could easily hear them as the souls of the damned, wailing before they are carried away. Did I mention that Finisterre is built on a graveyard? Hey, I watch movies: I know what happens when you build on burial sites. Or maybe only Americans notice.

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