Last post, we left off with me hobbling down the streets of Spanish villages, pain shooting up my left leg with every step. I was feeling left out because I couldn’t speak Spanish and in a cashflow crisis.

There is Always a Solution

We found a banker with whom we could communicate, and initially, he seemed eager to help us acquire some cash. My little heart soared. We had found our savior. 

That is until the bank machine rebuffed our attempts at 4-digit passcodes for our credit cards. Scared we would end up with defunct cards, we did not go for a third try, but I had another idea. I carefully unfolded the single, personal check I brought with me and held it up as a suggestion. This seemed to be the final straw in our interaction with our savior.

The banker expressively waived his hands, declaring, “There is no solution. There is no solution!” He was yelling at me, pointing out that I was the stupid person who forgot her bank card and the notion that my little personal check held any credence once I crossed an ocean and several borders, was silly and naive. 

I hated him. 

However, as it turned out, he was wrong. There was a solution, and he was underestimating the power of Camino Angels, one of whom worked for the World Bank, and guided us toward Western Union. 

It was a bit of a role reversal, the mom calling the daughter in tears, “I need you to send me some money.” But, as it turned out, it was an easy process which, remarkably soon, resulted in a Fannie Pack flush with Euros. 

RICE

Rest, Ice, Compression and Elevation were not helping the shooting pain just below my kneecap. If anything, it was getting worse. My partner, knowing how badly I wanted to continue this hike, ran to the grocery and the pharmacy, and the bakery and the bar for me while I sat with an ice pack on my knee. 

For two days, we accepted a ride from our French Camino Angels who drove us to our next destination. I sat in the town square, watching tired pilgrims filter into town. I was a fake pilgrim using my hiking poles as crutches. 

The Inconvenient Truth

It was somewhere between 1:30 and 3:00 in the morning when I lost the wrestling match with myself. It was the first time since purchasing our plane tickets to Paris back in January, 2025 that I entertained any thought of leaving Spain before my triumphal entry into the square in Santiago. 

There would be a photo of me in front of the Cathedral: victory stance, wearing the same, tired outfit I’d been wearing for six weeks, but the smile–all new, Stick Left and Stick Right held high in the air. Cut to the shot of Rick and me embracing; I’d surely be crying. Caption: “WE DID IT!”

The thought of wracking up a third day of riding in a car made me feel icky and foolish. I worried that I might be doing permanent damage to my knee.

Even if my knee eventually did allow me to get back at it, I would feel like I cheated; my Camino would be tarnished by car rides. I was tired, in pain, and it was time to go home. I would come back. I would fix my knee and return to the last place on the trail where I had walked, and finish. It was not what I had planned, but I felt relieved. And disappointed and embarrassed.

I lay waiting for my partner to awaken, feeling resolute. 

We huddled next to each other on my twin bed with our phones, his open to the map, mine to train schedules and within an hour figured our way out of The Way. 

The Unintended Journey 

Settled into the back seat of a taxi, watching out the window as we drove past pilgrims setting out for their walk, tears rolled. Rick reached over, touched my arm and began to quote our daily mantra, “In the spirit of surrender and adventure . . .” 

“Stop,” I said, pulling away, “I’m never saying that again. Look where it got us.” 

The one-hour ride to the train station stole a chunk of our newly-found cash, provided the time to cancel upcoming reservations for hotels and hostels, and to properly pout.

And so, it went like this:

• Taxi
• Train
• Bus
• Overnight in San Sebastian
• Train
• Train
• Taxi
• Overnight in the Paris airport
• Airplane
• Airplane
• Sister’s Car
• Home

There was much stress about getting on and off the right train at the right place at the right time. There was pain. There was help from kind strangers and drivers and transportation workers. There was much finagling at the airport as we had decided our best bet was to just show up and throw ourselves upon the mercy of the court of Delta Airlines. 

Did you know the Delta desk in the Charles De Gaulle International Airport in Paris closes in the early afternoon on a Tuesday in October, even when they still have flights to take off later that day?

Did you know there is a Hilton in the Delta terminal of the afore mentioned airport? 

For the price of a beachfront, luxury suite on a private island, we got a good night’s sleep in a King-sized bed, under a luxurious comforter, and had a relatively short walk to our gate the next morning where Delta did, after some ado, fly us safely home. 

My Whiteboard is Taunting Me

Five trips and four sets of visitors, followed by the crowning glory of The Season: The Camino de Frances, September 14-November 5. 

Fifty three days we dedicated to this project and part of me wants to take a marker and angrily scribble it out like a child frustrated by his clumsiness with a crayon.

I can’t check it off because I didn’t finish it. I’m not even supposed to be home yet. I can’t erase it because I might forget all about it, and wouldn’t that just be a nice, heavy brick to add to the “Unfinished” compartment of my baggage of this lifetime.

If Only I Didn’t Talk so Much

When I am excited about something, I tell everyone. Post it. Write about it. Announce it to the Universe. And now I have to explain why I had to quit, and come home 36 days early. 

Many kind friends have been encouraging, and the diagnosis of a tibial stress fracture confirmed that I did the right thing by aborting my mission. I have vowed to go back and finish next year; and yet, I feel like I have been handed a participation trophy for the Intramural team while Varsity is still on the trail. 

Mostly, I’m accepting and doing what I can to heal while using my time wisely. I was gonna have Rick bring me one drawer at a time to tidy, but I’ve been too busy connecting with friends, reading and writing, playing card games, Netflixing, and managing his deployment of most of my typical duties. He is, by the way, doing a pretty good job. 

While trying to make the best of it, I’ll have to admit, I do not enjoy being on the business end of a walker or using crutches; the wheelchair is the worst. And for the record, I make sure to say aloud, at least once a day, “I do not like this.” 

And then there’s my wish that this didn’t happen and I was still in Spain headed for the coast instead of staring at this stupid whiteboard. But here I am.

Stay Tuned 

The Story: Part Three, will finally land me in the reflection of my story. If you haven’t already, feel free to scroll down and subscribe and I’ll send you an email when Part III launches.