Travel

 Thursday, October 3 to Saturday, October 5

Portland to Seattle to Doha to Cape Town

 

 

One of the strongest memories of my first Cape Camino two years ago is how persistently anxious I was about the travel to South Africa. For months the anxiety dogged me like a lingering cold. It seemed no amount of planning and preparing, no amount of meditation, no amount of journaling, could vanquish it completely. I was traveling alone, farther away from home than I’d ever been. For the very first time, I was feeling uncertain about my resilience and problem-solving abilities. While I still felt strong at almost 71, everything was slower – my thinking, my pace, my healing time. In addition, in that post-Covid time flights were often cancelled without notice. I had one layover that felt treacherously too short. I was scheduled to arrive on Day 0, and was meant to start walking the next day, leaving no wiggle room for missed flights. 

 

It turned out that none of my worries came to life, and I arrived whole and on time. But the memory of the anxiety, and my puzzlement at my inability to make it stop, informed my travel preparations for this trip. This time I had zero anxiety about the travel. In part because the trip was now familiar. And I’d made sure all my layovers were generous enough that I didn’t even have to hurry, let alone run. I gave myself an extra day in the beginning, in case a flight got cancelled and to be a tourist if all went well. There were glitches of course, but nothing that ruffled my equilibrium. 

 

When I entered PDX the morning of October 3, for the first time since the revelation of the most recent remodel, I was in awe. The new look is stunning, a work of art that symbolizes the Pacific Northwest perfectly. It felt like an omen, an open invitation for the adventure ahead. As I walked around, looking for my airline check-in counter, I felt the excitement that has never failed to meet me once I’m at the airport. I’d been here before and knew what to do. My body, which I’d worked hard to prepare and which I was never certain I could rely on in this latest decade of life, hummed with energy.

 

Checking in, I was happy to see my bag was well under the weight limit. I had struggled with what to take and what to leave behind. Even with the mantra, “we pack our fears”, running in the background of my thinking, I would put things in and the next day, take them out again. I was worried about not having enough nutritious food. Last time I walked, rusks (think biscotti) were all that were really offered from the end of the walking day until a very late dinner time. So, I packed protein bars, which were heavy. I also had gifts. Two years ago, the gifts were generic and small. This time, because I knew so many people, the gifts were specific, and took up considerably more space. Even though I wanted the simplicity of walking as a pilgrim, relying only on what was necessary, I also knew the value of comfort, no matter how small. Extra cute tops. Makeup. Books. They all went in, and stayed in, although I balanced the weight by carrying more in my pack. 

 

The woman checking me in seemed uncertain about what she was doing, and the man who appeared to be there to help her was busy talking with a friend. I swallowed my impatience, reminded myself that I had lots of time, that I was traveling as a pilgrim, and smiled through our interaction. When I got to security, the guy checking my boarding pass sent me back to the ticket counter because something didn’t match. I still had lots of time so I calmly (mostly) found my way back, and was able to walk right up to the woman who’d helped me. I told her what happened and she and the guy who was actually focused on her this time figured out her mistake. New boarding pass in hand, I headed back to security, where I was allowed through the fast line, and then strolled to the gate to begin waiting. Once boarded, we were in Seattle in less than an hour. 

 

With a longer layover than two years ago, the Seattle airport was easy this time. I walked, rode the train, and walked again, leisurely, to the international gates. I had time for a last Starbucks coffee, and enjoyed the company of a man from India traveling with his adorable 5-year-old son who seemed thrilled to have a new grandmotherly audience. The 15-hour flight to Doha was uneventful if long. I had an aisle seat, plenty of snacks, and the menu of movies offered some promising distraction. I even managed to sleep off and on. Somewhere on that flight a new day was born and I was in October 4. 

 

The Doha airport is an entertaining wonder of expensive shops, interesting art, and people from all over the world. I had 9 hours in which to be entertained, in the middle of the night. I walked concourses and shopping areas, rested, and then walked more. I found snacks (diet Coke and croissants) to soothe a stomach that was not enjoying the time warp. I found a hidden garden at one far end of the terminal, lush, and jungly with splashing water features. People were tucked into corners enjoying the stillness. I didn’t find my own nook because I was afraid I’d fall asleep and miss my flight. I settled instead into a seat along one of the walkways to write and people-watch. A swirl of voices in varying emotional states in multiple languages was background to a rich palette of skin-tones and clothing styles. Young men draped in white toweling that appeared to be religious garb, rushing along in Croc-clad feet. Women in various states of coverage from full burka to skin showing, many with fancy shoes, designer handbags, taking selfies. Older men in long robes and a variety of head coverings. Western travelers, a minority, in jeans and t-shirts and sneakers. As my eyes wandered, I connected with a silver-haired woman who could have been me. We exchanged a quick smile, a small oasis of connection that kept me smiling for a while after. 

 

 

While I sat, I played games on my phone (the word games that are a fixture of my life at home), but eventually quit because I kept nodding off. Literally. My head falling and then snapping back in a perfect sit-com routine. I visited Facebook, determined not to do another entry, and not finding much to distract, but wanting to be there for as long as I could. Once I got on the next leg, the flight to Cape Town, I would not be on Facebook again until at least the middle of November after my pilgrimage was complete. 

 

From my journal that night: “Leaving Facebook is not easy. I keep wanting to scroll, to write, to keep the connection going. I will definitely disconnect once I leave this airport. It seems I choose either Facebook or writing and reading. Facebook is mindless, requires less of me, is much like sugar in its numbing effect.”

 

A good friend had gifted me with a set of oracle cards based on the poetry of Hafiz to use as inspiration on the walk. I unwrapped the small box for the first time as I sat in the Doha airport. The box itself was lovely, slightly larger than a standard deck of cards, with a satisfying magnetic flap and a beautiful hummingbird on the cover. I chuckled a bit at the card I drew: Rest Deeply. Considering how exhausted I was at that point, it felt like a little joke from the universe. Until I read its message: “Now is the time to let go of the plans and pressures of performance and gift yourself a season of stillness. Let your thoughts loosen, your mind wander. Let your soul bones curl into a soft wonder.”

 

When enough time had passed that my gate could be assigned, I checked the arrivals and departures board. I noticed that all flights to Iran had been cancelled, a stark reminder that not all was well with the world. My gate turned out to be a long walk back along a concourse I knew well after all those hours. Too tired by then to do anything but sit, I people-watched until it was time to board. I was surprised to be boarding a bus instead of the plane, having forgotten that it’s a fairly common practice with larger planes to be shuttled out to them. I stood, mostly to stay awake and knowing there was a lot of sitting ahead. The ride seemed to take forever, with many turns as though we were in a maze, but we did finally arrive at the plane. Then there was another long wait on the plane because of a medical emergency which resulted in someone being taken off. That would result in our arriving in Cape Town almost an hour late, and I was deeply grateful to not have a layover to worry about. 

 

I gave myself over to the hours ahead (9 ½ this time) with more movies and food and slipping in and out of sleep. When the lights came up in preparation for landing, the young woman next to me started chatting for the first time. She was amazing. Tall, gorgeous, finishing architecture school, traveling with her family. We shared Morocco stories, golden retriever stories, travel stories. Pilgrimage came up, a topic I’m always more than happy to explore, and one she’s only just beginning to consider. The connection was lovely, but the minute the plane was ready for disembarking, I got swept down the aisle and didn’t see her again. It’s one of the things I love about travel: those short but intense connections that enrich and expand, end without fanfare, and leave me feeling more alive. 

 

The passport control line was long and slow, but without issue. The stamping of my passport brought a smile to my face, as it always does. The wonder and awe of being a person who has a passport with exotic stamps in it never fades. I collected my bag and found my way to the exit. Just on the other side, I spotted Caroline, smiling and waving. I was in a very different country, in a new day (two days later than when I left Portland), about to start a whole new adventure. I walked into her welcoming hug, forgetting my griminess and jet lag, thrilled to be starting this pilgrimage with my friend. 

 

When I walked two years ago, Caroline joined me for the Peninsula leg as a fellow pilgrim. She had been following my story on Facebook, and wrote to ask if I minded if she joined me. Her thoughtfulness intrigued me. I was thrilled for the companionship because everyone else I’d walked with up to that point was gone. Because she lives in Cape Town, she went home every night after we walked, joining me the next morning bright and early. She always made sure I felt settled and safe, alone in my place for the night, before she left. We spent my last full day in Cape Town together, visiting historical churches and then going to Kalk Bay, a beach town we’d walked through before, for shopping and lunch and breathing in the sea air one last time for me. A friendship was born in that week of walking that quietly flourished into something that felt like sisterhood over the two years after.

 

I reached out to her when I knew I was coming back because I knew I wanted to see her and hoped we might walk together again. She offered to collect me at the airport and to let me stay with her my first night and to take me to the guest house from which I’d start my walk this time. I asked that a trip to the top of Table Mountain be a part of our time together because I’d not done that last time, but otherwise was excited just to get to spend time in each other’s company.

 

The drive to her apartment went by in a blur of jet lag and conversation that felt like a continuation of the last time we were together two years ago. I was aware of driving through serious security gates and of the metal gate she unlocked to get to her door. The courtyard was full of vivid flowers and lush grass and giant leafy trees: October in South Africa is comparable to May in the States. The contrast of the two – metal protection and nature’s invitation - felt a little jarring, but also served to remind me where I was.  

 

 

Caroline made lunch for us in her tiny kitchen while I explored the warm and cozy space of the apartment. Her home is a perfect reflection of the person I was still getting to know. Inviting, full of love and the symbols of love. Books everywhere. Comfortable and easy. We ate our pizza and bulgur salad on her balcony overlooking the courtyard, our conversation continuing nonstop in the warm air. Hadedas, the noisy ibises that I loved so much my first walk, flew through announcing their presence in squawky voices full of indignant protest. They shared the sky with a hawk I later identified as a Jackal Buzzard and which became a common sight in the next weeks, and grackles, also common and loud and entertaining. 

 

Caroline’s sister, Andrea, joined us after lunch. She had also become a friend two years ago, accompanying Caroline on a couple of our walks, and taking me to dinner my last day full day in Cape Town. We also had stayed in touch, connecting in ways that always surprised and delighted me. The three of us made our way to the coast and a tidal pool for swimming. Both women swim tidal pools regularly. I had joined them twice on the previous walk. The sea is very cold there, but that’s the point, I think. Being willing to endure discomfort to find the gifts bravery brings on the other side. I was willing to be brave again, and to enjoy the sensation of full aliveness once the shock of cold wears off. This day had grown stormy, however. The water was very rough, waves crashing over the concrete walls of the pool, and very few people were in the water. We waded in and managed to get thoroughly wet, but didn’t linger. 

 

Once back at the apartment, I showered and sorted my gear, shifting from traveler to pilgrim. Andy and I sat on the balcony drinking rooibos tea and catching up, while Caroline fixed dinner. During dinner and the conversation after, I found myself fading in and out, the jet lag and lack of sleep catching up. I finally headed for bed, reluctant to release the day. 

 

My first impulse once alone in my room was to check Facebook. And to share the most amazing day I’d just lived. With a conscious and considerable effort that I would be employing far more than I’d ever expected, I resisted. I grabbed my journal instead. As I settled into the comfortable bed, the music of the South African voices of my friends echoing in my head, in the absolute comfort of feeling safe and loved so far from home, I picked up the gift Caroline had waiting for me on the bed when I arrived. A gold box holding a gorgeous and delicate shell. Written on top of the box: Welcome Home.