It’s springtime in the South of France, the days are growing longer, but there is still a chill in the air. As my train from Paris whizzes by lavender fields and wheat crops that have yet to reach full height, I wonder what it might be like to park myself on one of the beaches in this region of France. But that is not what I’m here for.

The high speed train (TGV) from Paris stops in Bayonne. Before transferring to the smaller regional rail system (TER) that serves the small villages in southern France, I have the chance to eat a full meal, use a toilette and meet some fellow would-be Pilgrims of the Camino de Santiago (The Way of Saint James), a 500 mile trek across Spain to the tomb of Saint James in the northwestern city of Santiago de Compostela.

As our departure time gets closer, Pilgrims start pouring into the station. The train fills quickly with Pilgrims and backpacks, scallop shells (the sign of a Pilgrim) and head lamps dangle from the luggage rack above, bicycles and trekking poles spill into the aisles.  This train, it seems, has a singular purpose – everyone on it is heading to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, the traditional starting point for the Pilgrimage from France. The women I’m sitting with are Bulgarian, the Italians have all found each other, lining the seats along the wall of the train and I have lost track of the one native English speaker I’ve met. My journey has begun, and I’m about to discover that these Pilgrims will be my companions for weeks to come.

My Journey really began months before my departure, where every journey begins – at your own front door. It begins in the planning, in the decisions of when to go, where to fly in to and when the journey will end. Though I didn’t book my ticket until the middle of March for my April 22 departure, I had spent the better part of a year reading up on The Camino. I joined an online forum where I read all the advice on what to bring and what not to bring, what to wear and what not to wear, how rain pants are a must and hiking shoes (not boots) are a no-no. I bought the recommended guide book, didn’t bring rain pants and purchased hiking shoes anyway (Salomon’s. Best shoes ever!). And now I’m here, in line at the Pilgrim’s office in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port.

This small village at the base of the French Pyrenees, whose name literally means St. John at the foot of the pass, is the gateway to the Roncesvalles Pass. This is the route most of us will take, weather permitting, the follow morning as we begin our 33 (or so) day journey. Springtime in the Pyrenees brings wild flowers, herding goats and unpredictable weather. The volunteers at the Pilgrims office tell us the weather for the next day’s difficult climb is clear. On stormy days they recommend an easier route along the road; I however, should consider the easier route anyway, or so it is not-so-subtly suggested.

“This is the hard way,” the man at the counter says as he points to the route on a map that leads over the Pyrenees, “and this is the easy way.” I give him an acerbic smile, “but will the route over the mountain be open tomorrow?”  “Yes, but this is the hard way”, he says again, in a manner which makes me want to punch him, “and this is the easy way.”

The Pilgrims behind me are growing agitated by the wait. A loud, multi-national babble breaks out. Yelling ensues – mostly in English. I thank the volunteer, take my map and the list of hostels. Searching for my backpack among all the others, I can hear my cell phone beeping. Who could be calling me in France? Rummaging through my backpack, the phone beeps again.  It’s an alert: “Walk with Grace in 30 minutes.” It’s Wednesday, and in the States, time for my weekly walk with my friend Grace. More yelling. We are all jet-lagged, anxious and hungry.

Sunset, and dinnertime, comes later in France and most parts of Spain. I check myself into the nearest Albergue, or Gites, as they are called in France. Bed – 16 Euros; Dinner – 13 Euros; Breakfast – 6 Euros.  My budget per day – 25 Euros.  Now I’m the one who is agitated.

I ask what time dinner is. 7 p.m. What time is the Pilgrim’s Mass?  7 p.m. What time do the stores re-open to buy provisions? 7 p.m.  Is there Wi-Fi here?  No.  My phone beeps again, “Walk with Grace 8 minutes ago.”

I’m assigned to a room with seven other Pilgrims, sharing four sets of bunk beds. Two German couples have each taken a set of bunks; a Japanese couple has taken the two lower bunks. That leaves me an upper bunk. I’m nervous and anxious about the journey ahead, and now I’m worried about falling off the bed!  Lights out at 10 p.m., bunkmate’s headlamp on at 1 a.m., 3 a.m. and 4 a.m.  Wide awake, I check my phone. It’s 5:30 a.m. and I have yet to fall asleep.  At 7:30 a.m., I wake up to an empty room.  Panic sets in. A hurt feeling wells up inside me; I can’t believe they left me!

To be continued next week…