Finding a Sign in Iceland
Here’s the thing about Iceland-it’s a fascinating place; the ever changing landscapes, the unpredictable weather, the unrelenting winds, the extraordinary views, and the food.
But it’s almost as if they don’t want you to know how great it is here. They’re not braggarts or, truth be told, helpful. It’s almost as if they have a national motto, “Welcome to Iceland, now you’re on your own!”
There is a definite lack of signage here. You need to really, really, really know where you want to go and how to get there.
Yes, yes, yes there are “signs” on the road, but they make no sense – it’s a bunch of consonants strung together with one, ok, maybe two vowels – but Y’s don’t really count.
As you’re driving around in this absolutely stunning country, marveling at the splendor and total mess that is Mother Nature – good luck finding a sign for a “tourist spot.”
In the states we are assaulted with signs – I bet there’s a sign in Hoboken, NJ that says Grand Canyon 2398 miles.
Here – nothing!
There are few, if any signs alerting you of upcoming attractions and once you actually find your destination out of sheer dumb luck, you are on your own.
For example – the biggest thing to explode here on this tiny nation is the Fagradalsfjall volcano. It blew its lid in March, 2021 and has become a “must-see” for the vacation-starved, vaccinated masses.
Arriving in Reykjavik you can see the cloud of smoke billowing into the sky, but you have to aim for that plume to find it. There are no signs, no souvenir shops, no instant lava cakes to chart the way.
Once you find the general area, there’s a parking lot(ish) and some handwritten signs that kind of point the way.
The “way” is a five to 7 mile walk uphill …. both ways. There’s a “path,” but the way is defined by following the crowds. A slithering mass making its way up and up, forging ahead ever so slowly atop a series of mountain peaks allowing only the fittest and youngest to gallop to the top.
The funnel cake shaped tower of ash is always present, but when you see the river of jet black lava, you know you’re on the right trail. They look like black whipped cream rolling down the mountain filling in the valleys, hardening like freeze-dried ocean waves. And the ocean is what you hear! At first I thought I was hearing things, but the erupting volcano sounds like crashing waves.
Three peaks we ascended, each taller, and steeper than the last, each I swore would break me, each I conquered! But there on top of the last peak, I looked across the valley and saw the biggest sign in all of Iceland – Mother Nature’s fury on display – nature’s neon – the biggest billboard on the planet unleashing her full emotions, on fire, pent-up aggression and anger, and sadness.
It was the most beautiful sign I’ve ever seen – a map in motion – a combustible combination of revolution and evolution with each outburst of molten lava.
You don’t need to be Jeff Bezos flying in a billion dollar phallic rocket to know our blue planet is beautiful and fragile. Here, she is literally spewing up her guts, heaving up from way below trying to rebuild, regenerate, replace the wrongs up on the surface – perhaps ever hopeful for a fresh start with a future generation who will take better care of her.
The forecast had been calling for rain – not ideal for walking up and over the Pyrenees especially when the route is mostly through farm fields and dirt paths. There are two routes we “pilgrims” can choose to our destination- Roncesvalles – the Valcarlos Route made popular with the midieval pilgrims because it’s not as steep or as strenuous, but it’s a tad longer – OR the Napoleon Route- a kick your ass 17-mile killer hike with a total elevation climb of about 3000 feet.
So I pulled my shit together and rolled out of bed. I got dressed, put on my headlamp and walked out onto the streets. It wasn’t raining – I thought it was a good sign. 
I gave myself a pep talk, I can do this, it’s only rain I’m not made out of sugar. And so it went for 17 miles. 
It took me 7.5 hours to follow the same path Napoleon carved out with his troops, and by the time I reached Roncesvalles, the sun was beginning to shine and I was beyond proud of these stubby legs and tired feet. 
I woke up this morning a jumble of nerves – not knowing if I was excited, resigned, or proud. I really couldn’t define my feelings.
The path was packed – at times three and four people across. Seems the tour buses were letting people out so they could experience being a pilgrim! Yep, a five euro bus fare, a quick stroll, no blisters, and you too can waltz into town all high and mighty….. But you know me – I’m not one to judge!
The walk to the end of all ends – the Cathedral in Santiago- is anything but spectacular.
And then I saw them – the spirals reaching high and higher – up, up, up into this picture perfect blue sky – and I knew I was close.
Snaking my way through the old town, I had to ask several people where was the Cathedral, they all pointed “that way” and so I went until I got there. And there to greet us – bagpipes and scaffolding!!!
Ok not what I imagined, but I was overwhelmed with emotion, I started balling, that heaving, ugly “break up” girl cry – yep bubbling snot and all – just like in the movies.
And I didn’t care one shit. As I looked around, everyone else was having their own ugly cries too – even those who just caught the bus and schlepped 10 kms.
I sat my skinnier ass down and ordered me a Kalimotxo and toasted myself. I must have radiated pride because I heard a woman say in that classic Irish brogue, “So, did you just finish the walk yourself?”
And so while my husband was desperately trying to drive his way into the old town, my surrogate cheerleader, Mary from Mayo County, gave me a congratulations hug.
Shortly thereafter my husband arrived and we celebrated with more wine and lunch.
A couple of hours later, I was standing in line for two hours at the pilgrim office to get my Compostela aka the “Well Done” certificate.
But here it is – all in Latin, so hopefully it says I’m an official pilgrim.
They announce multiple times – in multiple languages – not to take photos or videos during the service, but I think the photo will prove, no one listens to anyone anymore.
And so what …. It truly was awe-inspiring and a tad humbling…. even for me!
They’re now off to college, their worlds are getting bigger, and more exciting, and further away from me. And that is as it should be.
I was 40 when they were delivered, so chances are I’ll be slowing down as their lives ramp up.
I now know why this Spanish Schlep was important for me to complete.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had a blast, but seriously I’m DONE!
Like walking over the Pyrenees in the rain – that feeling of accomplishment and euphoria when I reached my hotel room after seven hours of hard hiking will be hard to top.
Being in the right place at the right time – Pamplona may be famous for its bull run, but the night I was there, the city through a Giant’s Festival. They say it’s a festival for the kids, and I truly felt like a kid joining in on the fun.
Being in the right place at the right time, part deux! Stumbling into a sleepy hill top town that was all closed up so they could have their own running of the bulls. All the roads and paths were closed so I was forced to sit down, chill, and cheer for those idiots who tried to outrun angry beasts with horns.
Meeting fabulous people from all walks of life; rich, poor, hopeful, hopeless, lost, in love, or out of love.
One of the most fascinating people I met was Tomas, a man from Uruguay, who travels on an Italian passport, who has worked for almost a decade in China, and who was schleping a bottle of red for miles and miles in his backpack. Now keep in mind most people will shed bars of soap because they don’t want to haul the extra weight. But for Tomas, that red was worth its weight in gold. That’s a man who knows his priorities!
My priority right now as I’m just hours from my grand finale – Who do I share the honors with – my hiking boots or my sandals?
My sandals took over when my feet were so swollen they couldn’t fit into my boots – heck there were times when I had to walk without the straps even attached. But I dunno, can you really strut into Santiago wearing Velcro?
There I was enjoying my little stroll here on the Camino Frances about 30 miles from Santiago de Compostela, enjoying a great conversation with George and Mark, a couple from Cape Cod, when all of a sudden I needed alone time.
Lou has become a bit of a celebrity here on the Camino. When I introduce myself to people, invariably I’m asked, “Oh, is your husband the one who’s driving the Camino?”
There I was an American Girl, feeling alone and sad in Spain in a town that is full of energy, known to be extremely crowded with eager new pilgrims starting their walk to Santiago.
They arrive by train twice a day by the hundreds, – all bleary eyed from their travels, all with that fresh face of excitement, and all looking for an official store where they can get their “pilgrim’s passport.”
The “pilgrim’s passport” is a document that identifies us as a pilgrim, and provides proof that we have walked, cycled or ridden on horseback, the required distance to gain yet another document, the “Compostela” or certificate of completion – the Holy Grail for those of us on this holy trail.
As we pilgrims travel the Way of St James, we get our passports stamped from albergues, hotels, churches, bars, and restaurants. The stamps are pretty cool and these passports get us discounts and along the route.
The whole reason we get these stamps is to prove to the folks working in the Pilgrims Office at the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela that we actually did walk the walk. Or biked the walk. Or horseback rode the walk. Yep, you can ride a horse on the Camino – but no scooters or electric bikes. And no, I don’t know if the horses get one or only those who rode them.
That’s right, folks who show up in Sarria and walk just 100 kilometers – that’s just 62 miles – get the same certificate as those of us who have walked 500 miles.
When I first arrived in Sarria, the town that officially marks the 100kms distance, I was getting all high and mighty and throwing shade at all the new arrivals. All these new pilgrims with their matchy-match t-shirts and enormous backpacks, all smelling fresh and clean.
They were trying to figure out how to walk with their new hiking poles, how to carry their heavy backpacks (many fell, as those of us starting 500 miles ago did), where to eat, how to grab their water bottles from their packs – and how to correctly say the pilgrim greeting, “Buen Camino” which means “good way.” (((FYI it’s pronounced bwin Camino))
It was a good way for me to start the day. Despite the rain and mist that chilled me to the bone.
The newbies gave me a shot of much-needed adrenaline… which I needed to navigate thru the cow fields which just happen to share the official trail. Yep Holy Cows were seen, heard and smelled today.
I also met a holy man – a young man – 27 years old – from Canada here with his family. He’s a newly minted priest. He’s struggling with the walk, and I gave him some words of encouragement and advice – Drink plenty of water, add electrolytes, don’t get upset by all the kids having sex in the albergues, and yeah, it’s ok to pee along the road – just remember to raise your robe!
And then I left him and he blessed me.
And you know what, I don’t care. Let the newbies have their certificate, so what if it’s exactly the same as mine, so what if they didn’t walk 500 miles – at least they’re here, they’re trying, and that’s ok in my book. And here on the Camino we’re all sinners, winners, and at times …. losers.
I like to pride myself on knowing a lot about very little. I get the big themes, but most of the time I can’t be bothered learning the minutiae.
But today as I crossed into Galicia the direction signs for us pilgrims to find our way to Santiago de Compostela changed….. and sent me in a tizzy.
You gotta understand, as I left this morning all the signs were indicating that it was going to be a glorious day.
I was in love with the countryside and couldn’t stop taking pictures. Fall was putting on a spectacular color show.
I was climbing up, but I couldn’t see to where or for how far. I would have these moments of sheer terror (“Yep, this is how it ends, I walk off the side of the mountain”) and then I would full of joy (“OMG, this is the greatest adventure evah, as long as I don’t fall off this fucking mountain).
I stumbled into the tiny village of O Cebreiro who’s claim to fame is that THE Holy Grail is said to have been hidden here as late as the 13th century -AND- it is the birthplace of the priest who brought back and made popular the Camino de Santiago in the 20th century….. well at least I now know who to blame for this Spanish Schlep.
I had to climb another pass up into another set of mountains and the fog was getting worse. I asked if it was safe to go on, and I got an emphatic nod yes.
Soon I felt the sun and I was beginning to warm up, and then the fog lifted and I got to see some of the Galicia mountains – and – I was able to focus on things other than falling off a mountain…. Things like those new signs to Santiago.
These signs have a countdown in them, letting us know how far we have to go before this whole stupid thing is over. I couldn’t believe the numbers – unlike miles, these signs were in kilometers and I was totally confused.
So I took out iPhone, checked my KM to Miles app and what the friggin hell – I’ve only got like 91 MILES to go.
Those stupid kms robbed me of a major milestone- but I don’t fucking care – this Spanish Schlep is almost terminado! Done! Finito! Fini!
I was a new woman, I was so full of euphoria, I nearly floated down the mountains.
Yes, I am that damn good.
So out the door I went at Zero Dark 30 along with the other pilgrims. Today our walk is rated as “easy” by the guidebooks – but someone forgot to tell us that.
Nearly an hour in, I saw a small group hanging out in the middle of the road – never a good sign. As I approached I saw a woman on the ground covered in blood. She had fallen, tripped over her own hiking sticks (would have been funny if it hadn’t been for all the blood and the fact that she had broken her ankle and scraped the shit out of her face). The ambulance raced to the scene to take her to the local hospital.
I was telling this story over coffee to a fellow pilgrim about 10 minutes later when he said another person had taken a really bad fall, and then pointed to the sky saying, “Look, that’s the helicopter taking him to the hospital.”
Jesus people it’s just walking.
Maybe we’re so focused on the end that we’re losing our focus on what’s in front of us right now.
I told my feverish self to chill, pay attention, and be the fuck careful.
Further up the road, I saw a local farmer pulling off the leaves of tree limbs, prepping some fresh switches to lead his flock from field to field.
His littlest lamb even pulled a Madonna for me – Strike A Pose!
And in the cra cra town of Vega de Valcarce the roosters, hens, and geese were all a gaggle about the local gossip. They wouldn’t share it with me, sorry to report.
But I’m sure if these hens could talk, they would explain the goings on – like, why isn’t the house that’s sheared in half condemned, or sealed off, or curtained off?
I mean look at this photo – the tv is still in the bedroom, the beds are made, and the wardrobes still have clothes in them. What the fucking fuck happened here and why doesn’t anyone except for me seem to think this is not normal?
Oh well.
You can see the uncoupling of the Camino couples.
The Galicia mountains tower over me.
My stats
Fall is definitely in the air here in Spain.
Nearing the end of my trek across Spain on the Camino de Santiago, I’m now in the Bierzo region, a valley between two mountain ranges – one I’ve scaled, the other, the mountains of Galicia loom ahead, taunting me. I’ll be climbing them tomorrow, but today it felt like those last hazy, crazy days of summer.
After setting off on my Spanish Schlep September 6, I am absolutely astonished and a tad sad to realize I’ll be done with this nonsense in just …. wait for it….. Eight Days!
Climbing up the mountains of Bierzo I’ve noticed a change in my fellow pilgrims – gone are the days of those Herculean hikes; instead, all of us seem to be slowing down, breathing it all in, holding on because we all know, it’s going to come to an end very soon.
Then at lunch, more pilgrims were lingering over their food and drinking it all in- the sun, the warmth, the beer.
You can feel the urgency to just slow down and to make every moment count. There’s more time now to just sit, paint something in a journal, take in the view.
And these hills are working with – not against our bodies. Yes, we are stronger but these hills, these views can leave you breathless – the colors are simply divine. The vineyards that cover them aren’t as well kept as those in the Rioja regions – and their wines aren’t as famous, but from the countryside to the villages you can smell them and you want to devour it all.
I came to a house with the garage door open and there were three guys making home brew.
Just like back to school season – there’s the shopping here on the Camino. Pilgrims are starting to load up on souvenirs; I can see a new walking stick here and there, or a new pin, even new patches adorn backpacks.
The churches here are smaller, simpler but grand in their own way. A nun welcomed me in to visit her small church complete with a fresco on the ceiling – not quite the Sistine Chapel, but what is.
Bonus: I walked through these fields for what seemed like an hour and all I could think of was “Monty Python”
