The Send-Off

I shifted the weight of my pack. 17 pounds. The first time I’d walked around with all of the things I would need for the next three weeks. I was still getting used to it.

Here I was at the bottom of the Rocky Steps in Philadelphia. My layover (and unofficial start) before the flight to Lisbon. In a few hours I’d be on a plane. In a couple of days I’d be walking 170 miles on the Camino de Santiago, up the coast of Portugal and Spain. On my own. Every decision mine. The journey was about to begin.

Tourists were around me, posing with flexed arms, walking up and down the steps. From the outside, it was an ordinary day at the Rocky Steps. None of us knew why the others were there. Was it a simple tourist attraction? Was there greater meaning?

Inside, I felt free and happy to be there. Also a little nervous for the journey ahead.

These were my first steps on my very first solo trip.

I felt a little out of place. My hiking pack felt giant compared to what everyone else carried, my trail runners clipped to the top because nothing else fit inside. The tourists around me were in shorts and sneakers. No other large packs in sight. If anyone noticed me, I didn’t notice them noticing.

But I had planned this. The Rocky steps were symbolic to me. I wanted this moment to be the strength that sent me off.

I started up the steps. The people around me faded. I had a lot to think about. As I climbed, I felt immense pride.

At the top, past the steps near the museum, I sat down. I changed out of my Crocs and into my trail runners. I don’t remember why, but it felt momentous.

I was proud of myself.

Then I walked to Jim’s South St for one of the highest-rated cheesesteaks in the city. Cheez Whiz, extra peppers, extra onions. I ate the entire thing, standing outside on the sidewalk, my hands messy from all the cheese. Completely content. My layover was complete. It was time to head back to the airport.

Why I Almost Didn’t Go

I want to be honest about why I almost didn’t go. Or why it took me quite a while to commit.

It wasn’t fear. I was waiting to be ready — physically, mentally, emotionally. I’d heard about the Camino several years prior. I instantly knew I wanted to do this. I thought about it, researched it, ate up any story online, and kept telling myself: when I am ready, I will go. I started walking to train. Still no ticket booked. No official plans.

I was never going to be ready. There would not be a defining moment when I’d say: now I am ready. I heard somewhere that ready isn’t a feeling. It’s a decision. That hit me. Once I accepted that, I booked my flights about a month before I started walking.

The Route I Chose, and Why

There are several routes on the Camino Portugués. I chose the coastal one because it follows the Atlantic Ocean, and something about the ocean keeps me calm and draws me in. Most of my trips involve water in some form. That was reason enough.

It was the right Camino for me. I knew it by the end of the first hour.

What the First Day Actually Teaches You

I landed in Lisbon at 8:30 on a September morning. No plan beyond a train ticket booked to Porto.

A few hours later I was in a hotel room, pack at my feet, waiting for the journey to properly begin. I’d decided to start in Matosinhos, north of Porto, right where the Atlantic announces itself. Over the next twelve days I would walk the Spiritual Variant, take the boat ride up the Ulla River, and reach Santiago. After Santiago, my plan was to head to Finisterre, the end of the world. Day 1 was the only one I had to think about now.

The morning I started reminded me of the first day of school. The air crisp, the sun already bright and casting harsh early shadows. The shade carried a coolness. Nervous and excited, unsure of how the day would unfold.

The Atlantic was right there beside me before I’d even taken a proper stride. Wide open, immediate, enormous.

Day 1 I walked from Matosinhos to Vila do Conde. Twenty-eight kilometers. Seventeen and a half miles. Thirty-nine thousand steps. I felt every one of them. The ocean was on my left the entire way. For hours the sound was waves and my own footsteps on the boardwalk.

I kept adjusting the pack as I walked. It would take me a few days to learn how to tighten it properly. How to make the weight sit where it belonged.

The day had started warm and sunny. By the time Vila do Conde was in sight, the sky had turned overcast and the air had cooled. My pack felt heavier by the minute.

Vila do Conde arrived as a natural stopping point. It also arrived with a problem I had been ignoring: I had no accommodation booked.

I knew that pilgrim hostels fill up. I didn’t realize how fast. Most pilgrims that I spoke to had one or two nights booked ahead. I had nothing. I was afraid to commit on that first day. I wasn’t sure how long I could walk. The most I had done in training was 6 miles. I was feeling anxious the closer I got to Vila do Conde.

I crossed the bridge into Vila do Conde. I wasn’t quite sure what to do. I sat down on stone steps that curved into a circle overlooking a garden and the river. It was peaceful. I wanted to soak it in, take a little break. But the worry about accommodation was sitting heavier than the pack.

Other pilgrims kept arriving in a steady stream. You could tell the ones who’d just made it in (still in their packs, clearly heading somewhere) from the ones who’d already dropped theirs and were out exploring. They knew where they were going. I didn’t. I was trying to stay calm but realizing it was time to find a place.

I found a hotel eventually, but it required backtracking off the route. Lesson learned: no extra kilometers. Book something on the route. Book it the night before, or the morning of, but book it.

By the time I made it to my room I could barely walk. I was in pain. My feet were numb, they could have fallen off and I wouldn’t have known. My knees ached. I hobbled around that hotel room, ordered room service, and ran a long hot bath (multiple times, honestly) until the day’s damage started to repair.

Most pilgrims don’t get room service on day one. I’m grateful I could.

Somewhere in that hot water with nearly every inch of me aching and room service on the way, I wasn’t done. My body felt wrecked. But I was ready for more.