Prologue

“You’re a walking miracle,” said Dr. Gutman, shaking his head in dis­belief while scanning the accident and medical reports. “Each one of these injuries could have killed you.” He should know, I thought to myself. Exhaling slowly, I silently counted off the multiple bone frac­tures and nerve damage I’d sustained after falling ten meters through a defective bridge in Cambodia a few months earlier. After logging more than two decades as an ER physician, there was little in the way of trauma cases that he hadn’t seen.

Dr. Gutman’s words planted a seed. If I’d come this close to death, I was in no position to take for granted my capacity to walk. Grati­tude trumped all else. Whereas I once jogged, cycled, trekked, played tennis, swam, trained, and competed in dragon boat races, I was now mentally crossing off that whole slew of rigorous activities. With a reconfigured body, my options had whittled down considerably.

Over the course of a year, with an intensive rehabilitation jammed with physiotherapy, osteopathy, swimming, acupuncture, and gentle yoga, I never deviated from my walking routine, weaving its heal­ing-juice through everything else. Within a few months, I graduated from limping along with a four-legged assistive device to hobbling on crutches; from using a cane to relying solely on my own two legs. Eventually freed from all contraptions, I was getting antsy. My rehab regimen needed a boost. I had to push myself, see how far my body could carry me.

Why not walk to the end of the earth? I could start off with a goal of 1000 kilometers, give or take. Granted, it was a pittance compared to the 7-month, 21,000-mile walk that journalist John Salopek had just embarked on. After all, Salopek was famously trekking around the world, with National Geographic tracking his every move, while I was merely planning to traipse across Spain. But never mind the details. My mind was set: I was going to walk the Camino.

This epiphany wasn’t the first time I’d entertained the notion of a walk of this magnitude; the seed had been planted long before.

More than a decade earlier, unemployed and newly arrived in Toronto from Montreal, I was looking for work—and meaning. With time on my hands, I accompanied an acquaintance to a net­working conference, where I heard a woman talk about her experi­ences walking hundreds of kilometers along the medieval pilgrimage route known as the Camino Santiago de Compostela. Sue Kenney spoke about how she sought solace in adventure and nature after being dumped from a high-paying corporate job—by walking the Camino, and laying stones along the way. The connections she made and friendships forged provided the sustenance she had long sought and craved. My curiosity was piqued: I could use a dose of nature and nurture. At the end of the day, Sue and I sat down for coffee.

Though I wasn’t very spiritual back then, nor am I Catholic, Sue’s story—revealing humanity’s deepest instinct and primal desire for nature, and how its inspiring and forgiving elements help us heal— struck a chord deep inside of me. Her narrative resonated on many levels; through a sharpened lens, I saw that my life too had reeled and roiled, through times of misery and depression, few work prospects, failed or non-existent relationships, and plenty of stagnation. After hearing Sue speak and reading her book, my gut and lungs were knotted. I ached for air. By the time we parted ways, a few hours later, the question wasn’t if I would walk the Camino, but when.

My serendipitous meeting with Sue and our subsequent corre­spondence—even after my accident, she bolstered my confidence— laid the groundwork. Then, Dr. Gutman has his say—and the idea birthed buds.

Two years after plummeting off that unsafe Cambodian bridge, I was still on a journey of recovery and healing. Returning to the South Asian country with its own grim history, I revisited the bridge of my accident and sought out those who saved me. Then, while visiting a friend in nearby Malaysia, I was urged to take a short de­tour to Indonesia—or more precisely to the resort island of Bali, a centuries-old locus of traditional healing. Before landing, I pictured a tropical isle coated in pristine beaches and wide open lush green fields. Beyond the verdant tiered rice paddies, I anticipated finding large swaths of land where, rain or shine, I could walk far and un­impeded. But, my expectations quickly evaporated. Besides a couple of yellowed and neglected “football” fields in my new hometown of Ubud, green parks and playgrounds did not exist.

The prospect of walking freely around the town of Ubud also soon evaporated—its increasing traffic and broken sidewalks swiftly dampening my enchantment. As one local writer has pointed out: “If you live in Ubud, walking anywhere is out of the question. If you walk, you are very likely to be killed in the traffic—quickly, by a schoolchild on a motorbike, or slowly by asphyxiation from bus fumes. Even walking through the rice fields, leaves you at risk of being hit by a motorbike, not to mention sunstroke, snakebite, get­ting lost, and above all, fatigue.”

A few months of dodging bikes, fumes and gaping chasms later, I decided to seek out greener walking pastures. Even the heady allure of rice paddy walks, initially so appealing, was wearing thin. How often can you tiptoe along raised beds of earth bordering flooded fields before your teetering no longer feels like leisure?

That’s when I went in search of a labyrinth. Surely Ubud, re­nowned as a center of healing (its original name, Obad/Oboed, translates to medicine) would feature at least one labyrinth, a set of circular paths that, in modern times, have been repurposed for walk­ing meditation. Imagining that I’d discover a crop of them dotting the island, I looked online and asked around. Neither Balinese locals nor longtime expats had even heard of a labyrinth. Which compelled me to create one myself—at a silent meditation retreat center, far off the beaten track and in the shadow of Bali’s sacred volcanic moun­tain, Mount Agung. Over the course of a year, the project provided me with an abundance of space, breathable air, respite from the hub­bub of Ubud, and a closely shaved pate of green on which to walk.

During one of my meditative strolls around the labyrinth, the notion of a walk of unimaginably long proportions re-surfaced and sprouted wings. I could no longer ignore the imperative: Gotta walk. Slow. Long. Far. As far as possible.

Clearly, the time had come for me to walk the Camino. But did I even fit the profile of a bona fide pilgrim? Who knew? Google helped sort me out.

I learned that the main pilgrimage routes—to Jerusalem, Rome and Spain—had been popular with Christians ever since the 4th cen­tury A.D.; and that pilgrims had been travelling to Santiago, to visit the (alleged) tomb of Saint James, the country’s patron saint, for over a thousand years. I had lived in Jerusalem and I’d toured Rome; I had even traveled through Spain—Madrid, Andalusia, and the Costa del Sol (by way of which I had acquired a passable though spotty comprehension of basic Spanish). But Galicia and Santiago were un­explored terrain; one more reason to walk a trail paved with history.

In the 10th century, a French bishop was one of the first pil­grims to make the journey to Santiago. At the height of the pilgrim­age’s popularity in the 11th and 12th centuries, over half a million Catholic pilgrims are said to have traveled the Camino Frances each year, from the southern reaches of the Pyrénée mountains to Spain’s remote northwestern region of Galicia; staying in pilgrim lodgings (known as hospitals) along the way.

Despite a gradual decrease in the numbers of pilgrims walking to Santiago over the centuries, the past few decades were marked by a resurgence. But 21st century pilgrims often walk for non-religious reasons and causes; wellbeing and self-enlightenment, to lose weight, to recover from a failed relationship, to raise funds, for an outdoor adventure, to meet new people from around the world, or to see Spain from a different perspective than the interior of a tour bus.

I too had no religious justification for charting this particular path. The motivating factors were few and simple: Crank up my body’s healing. Discover life in Spain’s remotest villages. Meet other wanderlusters. Improve my Spanish. Nestle into nature. Celebrate my 50th birthday. Escape from everyday intrusions: noise, traffic, pollution, a jungle of tattooed bodies—and the crush of social media. Apparently, with the criteria now extensively relaxed, as an explorer, seeker and trauma survivor, I too would qualify. Hallelujah.

Which is how I—a Buddhist-leaning, savasana-practicing, re­formed lawyer and lapsed Jewess—came to embark on one of Catholicism’s holiest pilgrimage routes.

Chapter 1: Getting in Gear

Travel was in her DNA. During family road trips through New York, Virginia Beach and Vermont, the girl rattled off country names and played “I Spy” with her sisters in the back seat of the station wagon. Overseas travel meant bulky suitcases, passports and a prized teddy bear in tow. It meant sandy beaches, high dives into hotel pools, exotic foods, shopping, room service and dancing on the tips of her father’s shoes long past sunset, to the sounds of tuxedoed crooners whose slick hair glistened under the wilting heat of tropical spotlights.

***

Over the months leading up to my departure, I am obsessed. While most wannabe-pilgrims in online forums ask about backpacks and hiking boots; thermal underwear and wicking socks; laptops or tab­let (or both?), I have more pressing matters in mind.

How would my gear move itself from one town to another? Ever since my accident, I had become unable to carry any heavy items. This new normal ruled out the possibility of me carrying my own backpack. Short of finding a way to teleport my clothes and toilet­ries, I needed a walking partner-and-carrier. A personal hauler. Per­chance, a butler. Heck, I’d even settle on a Spanish sherpa.

I had conjured up a few options. A camel sounded like a good idea. In 1977, Robyn Davidson had trudged across nearly 3,000 ki­lometers of the Australian outback with four camels lugging her gear. My guess was that a camel could be recruited quite easily as it would be covering a fraction of Davidson’s distance, carting considerably less stuff. I’d ridden a camel a few years before, in Germany, and assumed Spain had its share of dromedaries. It could be a walk in the parque. E-mails were sent.

“Does anyone know if and where I might find a CAMEL (sí, uno camello) in Spain?”

“Sorry, the only camels in Spain are in zoos and on islands as tourist attractions.”

“What about an alpaca or llama?”

“Impossible. It’s not legal for them to carry gear.”

“How about a donkey?” I wrote to sanctuaries and farms all around Europe.

No takers. No givers. No lenders. No way. Nada.

There was also the small matter of my… umm, rear end. The tri­angular-shaped sacrum at the base of the spine is one of the hardest bones in our body. It takes a heck of a whopping to split it into bits. Mine got whopped and shattered in a few places—most prominent­ly, in the neighborhood of L4-L5. My pelvis and the whole left side of my body took the biggest brunt of the fall; my leg was crushed and shortened from impact, its spindly toes banged up, still today loath to straighten out, flatten. A cluster of muscles and fascia were dented and damaged. A bundle of nerves originating in the sacral region, weaving down and through my left leg to the tip of my toes, were struck numb. In short, my body, bum included, took a pummeling.

Here is what I learned: If your derriere gets banged up from land­ing on rocks, you may develop an inability to sit. Chairs, benches, hard surfaces of any kind, make me cringe. I adapt. Kneel. Squat. Crouch. Lean. Lie down. Cushions, sofas, chaise longues, beanbags, and yoga mats are allies. They have my back.

In light of (and despite) my sitting disability, I forged ahead with plans, which included launching a crowd-sourcing campaign—to raise funds and awareness about invisible illnesses, injuries and im­pairments. The love and cash poured in. I was edging closer towards the starting line.

Packing light was a priority—even if I wasn’t going to do the heavy lifting. I borrowed a weathered backpack from my brother-in-law. A collapsible carrito (luggage trolley) from my parents. A green lightweight daypack from my niece. Weather-beaten and well-worn hiking boots from my Himalayan trek a few years earlier were pulled out of storage, now buffed up with sturdy orthotic inserts. And a last-minute splurge on Teva trekking sandals—just in case.

With the specter of chronic pain spiking if I carried too much load, weight restrictions were a key consideration. Fracture dislocation with displacement results in significant disc disruption and loss of load-bearing capacity. Every milligram counted. I skimmed down to the essentials: A (near-weightless) map, a (near-weightless) list of albergues (hostel-like accommodations for pilgrims), a (near-weightless) note­book, pen, pair of prescription eyeglasses. Even my toy-like Nokia cell phone, limited to messages and calls, felt lighter than air. Then, I took my research to the supermarket; lifting bags of white sugar and whole wheat flour in varying weights. The 500g bag was a little light and the 2kg bag so heavy, it tugged my whole body downwards. The 1kg bag was on the lighter side. With the 1kg bag in one hand and the 500g bag in another, I strolled the aisles (ignoring puzzled looks of onlook­ers) and, like a latter-day Goldilocks, hit my target.

In preparation, I also read stories about unusual modes of doing the Camino. “Almost anyone can walk, ride, or cycle a Camino,” wrote South African co-author Sylvia Nilsen, about pilgrims setting out with different levels of ability. Nilsen’s book introduced me to an unknown species: Backpack trolleys. “If you prefer to cart your own pack,” she writes, “you might consider pulling a backpack trol­ley which will leave your hands free.” Examples included the Dixon Roller Pack, the Dutch-made Wheelie 111 and the Australian-de­signed Trackmate.

But my ultimate swoon was reserved for the Swiss-engineered, ergonomically-designed Carrix and its custom-made harness. I fan­tasized about navigating the one-wheeled trolley with my backpack behind me—on my own. A stroke of luck landed me on the front steps of a former pilgrim; Charly had a Carrix and he invited me to take it out for a spin. Strapped in, I tried to lift the Carrix. Even without a single item placed onto its frame, the damn thing wouldn’t budge. Which is when all my quixotic ideas of walking solo across Spain, the cool-looking Carrix trailing behind me, came crashing down. I left Charly’s house bereft.

I cannot do this alone.

As my departure date approached, the search for my sherpa reached a new level of urgency. Taxi services that ferry backpacks from one village to the next village were not a viable option; pre-ar­ranging a drop-off point was impossible due to unforeseen fluctua­tions in pain. If I couldn’t reach the taxi’s target destination, I might be left without a change of clothes and toiletries. And no one should be forced to sleep next to a foul-smelling pilgrim.

My new goal entailed tracking down another pilgrim, flexible enough to accommodate my slower pace and peculiarities. On the verge of canceling, I found some hope one morning in an e-mail, as if strapped to wings.

A German tour guide and seasoned pilgrim had gotten wind of my plans and predicament. Otto proposed that I join him for a week, after which he would locate someone to carry my gear the rest of the way. It sounded too good—and auspiciously timed—to be true. Due diligence flew out the window and I leapt at the offer. I was in too deep; there was no turning back now.

Chapter 2: The Pamplona Connection

Early on September 19th, 2013, one week after my 50th birthday, I wake up in Pamplona, Spain. I switch on my cell phone, impatient to hear from Otto. Hours later, my phone finally beeps, while I am exploring the park around the renowned Ciudadela fortress.

“Hello Amit,” it reads, “welcome in Spain. We will be the 20th more or less at noon in Cizur Menor. A little village 5 kilometers behind Pamplona on the Camino. We can’t go through Pamplona with the donkeys.”

Yes, of course, the donkeys. He is taking a pair of burros on a trial run; I am not alone in requiring detours and accommoda­tions. But it seems odd that these four-legged creatures should be prohibited from crossing through Spain’s cities and towns. After all, it was the esteemed Spanish writer Miguel de Cervantes who conjured up Don Quixote (a.k.a. The Ingenious Nobleman Sir Quixote of La Mancha), the legendary literary figure who roamed the countryside on a donkey, running into challenges and wind­mills along the way. So why would Pamplona authorities allow enraged bulls to run amok through crowds of bystanders during its annual Fiesta Fermin, but bar a couple of lazy burros from ambling through?

“Can you come to Cizur Menor by taxi?” Otto asks. “Or you go by foot and we organize the transport of your luggage.”

Most pilgrims who set out on the Camino Frances, embark from the French side of the Pyrenées, just north of the Spanish border. But I, balking at the prospect of negotiating such steep mountain passes—and unaware that uphill hikes would eventually track me down—pinpointed Pamplona as my starting line.

I’d arrived the day before, on a train from Madrid—where I had overnighted in one of the city’s trendiest neighborhoods. Elena, the mother of friends living in the southern city of Granada, had invited me to stay the night, find my bearings, shake out jet lag. We strolled through the neighborhood, stepping into a little shop around the corner. A chalkboard was illustrated with a globe and a phrase writ­ten in Spanish: Que Tus Suenos Sean Mas Grandes Que Tus Miedos. May your dreams be larger than your fears. I hear you.

***

The girl’s life was a patchwork of Polaroid moments, a kaleidoscope that brimmed with dreams. Hers was the quintessential family unit, warm, tight-knit, loving. Frozen in time.

***

Early the next morning, Elena escorted me to the train station. Hours later, Pamplona beckoned—one more city to add to the multitudes I’d explored around the world: Moscow and Singapore and Yangon and Berlin and Paris and Prague and New York and Tel Aviv and nearly unpronounceable ones like Tsetserleg and Nyaung Shwe, too.

Standing in front of a door with my thumb hovering above the bell, a wave of self-conscious regret overwhelms me; my backpack sits low to the ground, attached to the carrito, rather than glommed onto my back like a temporary appendage—the sign of a pilgrim. What will my host think when he sees me without a heavy pack ON my back? Fraud art thou.

My insecurities and self-doubt evaporate as soon as the door swings open, revealing a young man hobbling around with a crutch and a bum leg. Iranian-born Messoud greets me warmly, and wel­comes me into his modest apartment. We exchange anecdotes about our respective accidents and injuries: A panic attack averted.

Early the next morning, under an overcast sky and slight chill, I head out to explore Pamplona—and track down bulls. Two elderly women are perched on stools in front of a bar, each one nursing a pint of beer. A mass of placards, haphazardly affixed to building façades and windows fronting abandoned shops, read: Al Vende. For sale. Or: Alquilar. For rent. Signs of Spain’s economic crisis are prominent.

Drinking señoras. Vacant homes and stores. Even the bulls run wild here.

Spain’s recession is fraught with contradictions. Locals congregate in the old town to catch up on gossip, walk their dogs, or drive the infirm around in their wheelchairs. After sunset, when the sky takes on a rosy glow, crowds head to the jugeteria—for toys; the pastele­ria—for cakes; the carteria—for stationery; and the heladeria—for ice cream. Young couples congregate in cavernous smoke-filled bars sunken halfway into the ground, crowding around upturned bar­rel-tables, where they drink and dine on tapas. Crisis be damned, la vida pura y loca!

No word yet from Otto. I’m stuck in limbo. After picking up my credencial (pilgrim’s passport), I stroll around town, this time strate­gizing about how to meet Otto and his furry beasts in the little vil­lage “behind Pamplona.” A reconnaissance mission to Cizur Menor is in order—to gauge the distance, scope out the bus schedule and a meeting place. Sounds easy enough. Except for one thing: What sort of place will accommodate donkeys?

I set out in sandals, carrying a bottle of water, my daypack, and little else. Reaching the local university campus, I cross paths with students and pilgrims, all of whom carry backpacks of varying size; the students’ version comparatively smaller than the pilgrims’ bulky loads. My Shrek-colored daypack dangles behind me, setting me apart from the others. I’m neither a tourist, nor a student, nor, ap­parently, a pilgrim. Who am I?

***

The girl walked with her family, sometimes upwards of 20 kilometers in one day, to raise money for a cause, but mostly so she could cross the finish line and score an engraved and much-coveted medal that hung from a ribbon and that she would proudly collect and display for many years.

***

The first group of pilgrims that passes me looks determined in their staccato strides; their gazes, collectively fixed on a point far beyond the horizon—as if in hot pursuit of arrival. In comparison, I suddenly feel so inept, so physically in-able. A simmering trickle of self-doubt rises again. Where do I fit into this chain of able-bodied beings who wake up every day to walk long—and fast?

Bill Bryson comes to mind. The travel writer’s words remind me that I require only “a willingness to trudge.” I have the will—even though it may falter.

Reaching the outskirts of Pamplona, another wave of impotence hits me. What a crazy idea! What was I thinking? Fields stretch out ahead and on either side of me as I walk along a two-lane highway. I’ve clearly miscalculated. What was to be a short and leisurely stroll has morphed into a trudge gone too long and wrong. Siesta is at hand: Everyone is napping. I really should have packed a lunch.

At midday, with the day’s heat beating me down, Pamplona fades into a hazy blur behind me. Up ahead, Cizur Menor is a Spanish hamlet fast asleep. Not a soul or car in sight. The only sound from any direction is a gentle breeze rustling through the leaves. There is a rotonda (traffic roundabout) with a bus stop; looks like el centro. After noting the location of an albergue across the road, I return to Pamplona feeling tired, sweaty, and miserably triumphant. Drifting off to sleep, I toy with the last-resort-option of throwing in the towel.

By the next morning, my misgivings have all but dissipated. I pack a vegetarian sandwich, and stuff extra lettuce into a bag—con­solation for a couple of donkeys on detour.

“Buenos días,” I text Otto. “I walked to Cizur Menor yesterday. Just 2 look around. I will try to take the bus 2 get there. Do u want to meet near the rotonda?”

“Choose a bar,” he replies, “and send us the name.”

A bar? Strange choice for a meeting place—until I remember that this country’s bars are not just for booze; the locus of village life, they double as meeting places for locals and pilgrims—and breeding grounds for gossip. Which, when you’re jobless or otherwise down on your luck, is a pretty harmless way to pass the time.

But the mystery remains unanswered: Are donkeys welcome in Spanish bars? Not likely.

“Otto. Change of plans,” I write. “Meet me at Albergue Maribel.”

Inside the front entrance of the albergue, I lean against a wall and wait. Though it is only mid-morning, sweat-drenched pilgrims plod in, a steady horde groveling for showers and beds. Unhooking them­selves from enormous backpacks, they scan their new surroundings and the faces of other pilgrims. Looking for what, signs of fatigue? I feel tired just looking at them.

One by one, pilgrims shake off the day’s heat, refill water bottles, register, and sign in. Hospitaleros greet them cheerfully, assign rooms, answer questions. They are a calming presence, these albergue-vol­unteers; rarely rankled by even the most persistent or unkind person. Pilgrims themselves, hospitaleros are quick to empathize with the many frustrations that land on their doorstep.

“Where are the cafés and bars?”

“Where can I find laundry or shops?”

“What time is check-out tomorrow?”

“Can I stay more than one night?”

Pilgrims lay out cash and credencials. They drag backpacks to rooms. Claim beds. Strip and shower. Collapse. Eat. Drink. Plan.

In the middle of the albergue’s lush courtyard, a small bale of tur­tles surrounds an algae-filled pond while others glide under the water’s surface, their colors camouflaged, barely seen. One pair slowly inches up a plank set diagonally from the water up to the pond’s edge. The duo slithers over to a dry spot in the sun, and each one withdraws into its respective shell. I can relate; I’m about ready to hide away myself.

The faint sound of hoofs scratching against gravel summons my attention away from the timid turtles. I peer out the entrance, past an ominous-looking sculpture of a farmer who seems to have lost his upper torso. The sun’s rays pelt down, firing up the day and the pavement and all creatures big and small.

One of those big creatures leads the caravan. A heavyset man in a dark, sweat-stained t-shirt, khaki shorts, and hiking boots lumbers up the road towards me with great effort, his head hanging low. A mop of stringy gray hair partly covers his face, already sticking to his forehead from the morning heat. A rope dangles behind him, its far end tied to a reluctant donkey. It is hard to visualize this man leading others (human or beast) along this route, when he barely seems able to move his own bulk.

Trailing behind, unexpected company: a young woman, decked out in hiking boots and a bright orange jacket tied around her waist. She plods along, her gaze fixed on the gravel underfoot. She grips the end of a rope that leads to a smaller-sized donkey, no more enthusi­astic than the first.

Both burros are weighed down with gear. Given their fabled pen­chant for laziness, Otto doubted the donkeys could be coaxed into schlepping heavy loads for any length of time. He’d give them a week to prove their mettle and gauge their readiness to cooperate. I was to be part of the experiment. (Oh-oh.)

Barely out of the starting gate, the approaching quartet already looks exhausted. Bringing up the rear while scampering between ev­eryone’s legs, is a little mutt named Santi. Otto’s charge.

By the looks of it, my entourage has arrived. Willing trudgers. But just barely.

When the burly fellow reaches me, his face pulsates and flushes red.

“Hi, are you A-mitt?” I’m not entirely surprised at his mispro­nunciation of my name. Most people do the same.

***

The girl was the middle child of three daughters of a Romanian-born engineer and an Israeli-born musician who shelved her career to become a full-time mother. The girl’s name was unfamiliar in her hometown and school; a Hebrew name, difficult to pronounce, reserved exclusively for boys, making her the butt of jokes. Years later, the girl, now a wom­an, traveling in Nepal, would learn that her name was also a Hindi name—for boys only.

***

“Yes, I’m Amit.” I say, pronouncing my name slowly: Ahhh-meet. “Hola Otto.”

At a safe but friendly distance from the dripping-wet figure, I reach out to shake his hand.

Introductions are swift, their accents German. Otto’s friend— girlfriend, apparently—is Klara. There is a glint of dismay or disin­terest in her eyes, as if she has not been told that I will tag along. The prospect of traveling as a trio—animals excluded—strikes me as a smart move. No pressure, no expectations.

Otto introduces me to the burros. They are both a dirty shade of grey, with long manes and longer legs. They’re well-equipped, with saddle pads, bridles, halters, and all manner of equine-friendly gear. Each one is also bogged down with saddle bags and tubular stuff sacks.

The taller, older creature is Sancho—presumably named after Sancho Panza, the mythical sidekick of Don Quixote. But my as­sumption is upended when I later learn that the Camino was re-rout­ed in the 11th century, under the orders of a medieval king known as Sancho the Third (a.k.a “el Grande”). A donkey elder with ties to Spanish royalty? Why not.

On the heels of Sancho, an almost identical, but timid-looking Popeye trudges along. Dangling from a red thread tied to his saddle pad is a scallop shell, stamped with the distinctive red Cross of Saint James—similar to the scallop shell that hangs from my Shrek-pack, with the words Healing Pilgrim written across it in Sharpie. Popeye also has a small, orange, rear-reflecting light affixed to the back of his saddle pad; a puzzling add-on, seeing that we are not slated to walk after dark.

Otto hoists my backpack onto Sancho and slips my now-col­lapsed carrito under the ropes that prevent Popeye’s load from top­pling off. The big man then maneuvers and redistributes the rest of the gear—to ensure that neither donkey loses balance and tumbles into a ditch. I cringe, with remorse. We may have only just met, San­cho and I, but I’m already feeling inklings of guilt, arising from the knowledge that my involuntary in-abilities are adding to his burden.

“Santi! Bei fus!” Otto bellows in German, calling out to his dog: Heel. Now.

Then he turns to me, changing his tone.

“Buen Camino!” he calls out—which roughly translates to “good road”—offering me the common greeting that is exchanged among pilgrims on the way. I return the same in kind. Then, without fan­fare, errant bulls from Pamplona or friends to wave us off, the six of us—two-and four-legged creatures all bound together—walk on, heading west.

• Update #13 - Another milestone! My Book Launch by the Sea May 2, 2019

  Dear Family & Friends,

  Oh my, and thanks to each of you, how the book-joy continues...!
  

  

  Last Saturday afternoon, as dusk approached and rumbles of …

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• Update #12 - (Un)Bound, Together is Out!! Dec. 11, 2018

  Helloooo to all,

  As of yesterday, I've officially released my book into the world! 

  

  When I first spotted, then pulled out the very first printed …

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• Update #11 - Oh goodness.. I'm overdue! Dec. 11, 2018

  Dear family, friends and supporters,

  So sorry for the long delay... But please know that, since I parted ways from my first US publisher, I …

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• Update #10 - Sad news & good news Sept. 17, 2018

  Hello from a very hot 'n humid Bali!

  The sad news is that I've had to split from my publisher. Without getting into (boring!) details …

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• Update #9 - Manuscript: FINI! Aug. 26, 2018

  Hello, shalom, privet et bonjour de Provence (France)!

  I'm so happy to let you know that I've finished writing my manuscript, and just shipped it …

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• Update #8 - Editor found! July 4, 2018

  More fabulous news to share...Hallelujah!!

  I found an editor to help shepherd my manuscript closer to publication. (Not so) coincidentally, I actually met my editor …

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• Update #7 - Publisher Found! June 3, 2018

  Hello there!

  I'm thrilled to let you know that I've just signed with an American publisher: Sunbury Press ;) I feel blessed to have found …

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• Update #6 - Mission Accomplished!! April 11, 2018

  HALLELUJAH!!!

  I think it still hasn't completely sunk in, that less than 24 hours ago, I hit my target. Not so long ago, reaching 250 …

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• Update #5 - The Final Stretch April 6, 2018

  Hear Ye! Hear Ye!
  

  I need to share some amazing news: My campaign just hit a milestone...180 copies have been pre-ordered! 

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• Update #4 - Happy Dance! March 28, 2018

  Dear friends, family and all ye faithful...

  I'm just so overwhelmed and excited to announce that my campaign just hit a new milestone.. and is …

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• Update #3 - The Momentum Builds... March 26, 2018

  Dear friends and family around the world,

  Here we are at the halfway point of my book campaign, and truly..I could NOT have reached this …

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• Update #2 - Over the moon! March 18, 2018

  Dear family, friends (near and far), and lovely readers,

  I'm over the moon with gratitude!!!

  As you may know, I was in (forced) hibernation for …

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• Update #1 - In Just Two Days...! March 14, 2018

  Dear family, friends (near and far), and lovely readers,

  I'm super excited to see that it's been just TWO days since my book campaign launched, …

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