Had to put my thing down flip it and reverse it... Sorry Not Sorry.
Showing empathy to the villains in my mind required solitude and proper integration.
If you have read the first few posts that I started writing as I started my Camino, you get the general gist of my, “why?”. Why am I subjecting my body to the 268 km on foot across some of the most inhospitable walking terrains in Spain? in one word, Trauma. That word is overplayed as of late but the effects that it leaves and has left on my body, spirit and mind are unquestionably fucked (sorry Ama). My complicated relationship with my father, as it turns out isn’t the only work that I will faced with on this adventure.
Pictured: me leaving Madrid for Astorga.
While I promised to write every night for you all, I realized I was doing exactly the opposite of what I was there to do. Be there for MYSELF. So I had to unplug and release myself from said promise. I hope these catch ups make up for it. I will keep them as long or as brief as my heart and fingers decide.
The journey to Santiago they say, starts the moment you say yes and the moment you step out of your home on your way to Spain. I can now attest to the magic of saying , “yes” to the experience. My life up to that point had been heavy, what people see as success or busyness was simply deflection and pushing, nay, shoving the darkest parts of me to the deepest crevices that I could. Mexicans, like many other migrating cultures are taught to not show emotion and your problems aren’t as big as others, so pull your calzones all the way up and get to work. “Eres el arquitecto de tú vida, pero tambíen el albañil, así es que, a chingarle” (you are the architect of your life but also the bricklayer, so get to fucking work).
The assignment that I took on, walking 268km, roughly 160 miles for my non metric folks, launching from Astorga to Santiago de Compostela (last post explains the Camino’s origin story). I had to do a few days of work in London prior to arriving in Spain and I honestly believe it helped me land a lot more intentioned into my center. I didn’t have jet lag yanking at my eye lids. Landing first in Madrid with my pack, day pack, poles and three pairs of shoes. A psychotic amount of shit to carry on a backpacking trip…but you will see it get lighter as the days come.
The jarring introduction into Spain’s hospitality quirks was interesting, as I get to my hotel and the taxi driver insinuates that I am trying to not pay and he won’t give me my backpack. Meanwhile my neurodivergent brain is trying to process the street my hotel is on and the 500 people up and down said street. I respond in an equally shitty tone, pay him and saying good bye with a loud, “pinch Viejo amargado” as I remove my pack from his trunk. Making sure he heard. That’s right Spain, you will break your rude head on this Mexican brick wall. *narrator voice overheard* this is the exact moment the camino starts seeing that it has its work cut out with this one.
I get into my hotel room as fast as I can, checking in with the cutest boy I had seen up to this point. The room was idyllic and I didn’t leave it for a single minute, read the part about the 500 people again. Reassessing the shit storm that was my pack I remove every single thing from both backpacks and re-inventory them for the 10th time. Realizing that I probably won’t need all 8 mini bottles of shampoo and 8 of conditioner. I start laying a pile of things I will charge to the game and donate to the housekeeping staff. I repack everything and look up the train ticket that I have for the next day, Madrid to Astorga 1:03 pm, a short layover in Leon, then Leon to Astorga, landing at the train station at 5:36pm.
My taxi to the train station the next day is a refreshingly nice ride, the driver starts a bit surly but as if a moment of perspective should have it, we found ourselves laughing and the moments that don’t matter not allowing us to see the moments that do and the fact that they almost always happen simultaneously as if the universe’s sense of humor wasn’t obvious to me already. I jump on my train and there is still a stillness in my bones. I don’t feel the sense of butterflies that most would, as they embark on a life changing trip. I chalk it up to my gypsy soul being accustomed to travel and think nothing of it. My first few “signs” came in small blips, hearing Guadalajara on the loud speaker while in Spain. The Leon station being across from “Los Juzgados” (court) and somewhere my father visited daily in his work in Tijuana and Guadalajara. He was peppering me with nudges of “i’m here with you mija”. As I stepped out of the Astorga train station I am met with a hill, instinct had me looking around for a taxi and then I believe the camino truly started talking to me. I laughed out loud, people stared and clutched their purses. At this point I resign to the fact that am going to have to get very comfortable with public displays of mental distress. I realize, “hey dumb-dumb, you’re here to walk, walk your happy ass up that hill and find your lodging”.
“One foot in front of the other” is a cadence that will help me in the two weeks to come. I start walking, as I cross the street I am met with the first shell marker, letting me know that the Camino is at the top of the hill. I start becoming aware of the huge thing I am actually doing, and I am doing it for me! Arriving into Astorga two nights before the rest of the group I was joining was my best decision. I named myself the alcalde or mayor of the town. Befriending the gentleman at the sports shoe spot, where he sold me my third paid of shoes (yes, third) then followed up with “Aveis Como te va, no lo veo muy bien” (we’ll see how you go, I don’t see it going to well). I didn’t take offense, read the Mexican wall comment above. But I did shake his hand and said, “always bet on a Mexican horse sir, especially a female one”. I picked up my peregrino passport at the hostel, that I showed in previous post. That passport will follow me throughout the entire journey, as I collect stamps at every stop to show that I did in fact make the full journey and receive my Compostela or certificate of completion in Santiago de Compostela. Sort of like Box Tops but with a lot more blood, blisters, bland aids and tears involved.
I decide to stop into a pub across from the roman ruins in town. I have become so incredibly comfortable in my own company that I sometimes forget that other people can see me and sometimes in foreign places my lack of face filter can be seen with the naked eye. I slide into the bar table on the street and looking over the menu I decide to give paella a try. Now, I have been disappointed with every paella I have ever eaten in Spain since my first visit in 2014. My friend Seamus Mullen and former boss and mentor Javier Plascencia have ruined most paellas for me as they hold the standard but I thought, what the hell, “when in formerly occupied roman soil!”. I took a bite of the paella and looked up and wish Bill Murray was sitting in the table next to me or maybe Chevy Chase. The scene was perfect, a Mexican woman was eating a Spanish Paella in an Irish Pub while staring at Roman ruins in Spanish village. Someone needs to cast me in the Wes Anderson movie.
Astorga, is known for its history in Chocolate making. The fact taught to folks in the museum that was along the hill I climbed up to my apartment. After walking through it and being hugely turned off by the Aztec sculpture and metates (mortar and pestle used to grind said chocolate by the Mēxihcah) but little to absolutely not sufficient enough history of the fact that the Spanish Columbus’d cacao from Mexico I deemed them not worthy of my praise haha. I also learned of the region in Spain called La Cepedana! or Las Cepeda’s a district that is known for sweets in Spain. After my curious anthropological brain dared to ask the woman in the sweet shop heralding the same name of the origin of the name Cepeda and me mentioning “me apellido Zepeda con Z!” with a shit grin on and her responding with an, “that’s not the same thing”, I decided to fuck off and eat my pan on a bench alone. As I ate I turned to my left and noticed a giant mural of an old man, holding a bottle of wine and wearing a paper boy flat billed cap and immidiately said, “hola Viejo” (hey old man), I saw my father in that mural. I had no need to go down that street but it’s as if I was magnetized to go and stare at it up close and begin the work of bringing up all that shit I have suppressed. The time is now, the place is here.
Some context that I haven’t shared here yet, that I believe will help understand me and my journey a lot more, at least I hope that it does. The Zepeda line is a stunted line, in Santiago Ixcuintla Nayarit where my father was born, there is only record of my grandfathers birth with no mother listed. He was abandoned at birth. His marriage certificate to my abuelita Lola lists a name for mother and his death certificate lists another woman’s name with the same last name. Past him, there is no record that I have found of where we come from. If you happen to come from a family with an orphan or adoptee tear in your history. It is a hard crack to shake, added to the fact that I was raised to be so prideful of my Mexican blood but born in the states and raised on the border where I have been other’d my whole life. Not being enough of neither my American nor my Mexican-ness. It can lead to an internal compass that sort of spins in chaos rather than pointing in one direction at times.
Pictured: My dad and my abuelita Lola 1937 Nayarit
My grandfather was a rough man as I was told, my father being the first born, got the brunt of his wrath. Experiencing beatings almost daily until he told my grandmother that if she did not send him away that he would one day kill my dad. My grandmother, being the submissive wife sends my father to a convent where he doesn’t last long before being sent to one of the most hard and cruel military schools in Nayarit and where he will spend 11 years of his life. Meanwhile my grandparents had another 4 children and had not sent any of them away. My grandfather died young, maybe that had something to do with it. These facts and history reel starts to replay as I sit in Astorga and watch the city spin by me in the plaza mayor. The make line was full of men who didn’t know the love of a mother, weren’t given the right tools to be a father and bled all over everyone that did not cut them. I can sit here and say that the hate was hard but honestly, feeling empathy and love for these men is way harder but wasn't only needed but necessary if I want to lighten my own souls journey and my kids’ as well.
Not knowing where I come from may not be a big deal to most, but for me, it’s hugely important to do that investigation. I can’t explain why, it’s almost as if I see little me in a glass bubble inside me, slamming my fists against the wall, urging and hurrying me up on this process in order to free her. Every moment in my life had led me onto the camino. I don’t know how to explain it but the lack of butterflies was told to me by something I can’t explain that I was indeed, exactly where I needed to be and the fight or flight mode that butterflies sometimes get mistaken by was not engaged because I simply needed to “be”, be still, be present, be open and be aware of every sign that was about to come at me like a freight train. I will very quickly come to understand also, that there are no coincidences. The word is tricking to you to believe that things happen for no reason, but the root of the word means that things come together with purpose, to coincide, means to come together with purpose. Coincidence means to come together without purpose. Though I will say that the meteors landing in Spain the night I landed in Spain and the restaurant that we had sat down to eat at before leaving Astorga going up in flames (literally) about 5 minutes into us sitting down had nothing to do with me/us…I hope.
Pictured: the restaurants menu who went up in flames the night prior to leaving… an interesting sign🤔
The morning came for us to leave Astorga, with the shells of Santiago leading the way. I start to walk and quickly gather the pace my body feels comfortable at and I quickly find myself alone in the vastness of the Castilla y Leon region. The sounds of nature and at time silence can be defeaning. I talked to you all about how my mother and I spoke about how sad her and I felt for my dad and the love we wish he had experienced from a maternal or nurturing figure. What I didn’t mention was that the day before we had visited the cathedral in Astorga and after sitting with the Milagrosa (Virgin of Miracles) and saying hello of my girl, la Guadalupana (Virgin Mary) I was presented with an overwhelming grief for my own mother. The call where we talked about my dad quickly became an apology from me to her for the life that she didn’t have. the sacrifices that she has made for all of the people around her, sacrificing her happiness literally at every turn. A story many people can attest to their mothers doing. Some mothers becoming hard at that that life, others like mine, almost reverting to a childlike state in her now 70’s. How can you hate someone that has become the softest manifestation of a human through some of the hardest shit anyone could experience. With undiagnosed PTSD and ADHD, I see my mother’s inner child so gently. As I walked down the corridor of the cathedral she came to me and I had to tell her how much I appreciated her and have her know how viscerally aware I am that this life of mine would not be possible without her.
After hanging up I started to talk to myself, this is the camino right, lots of beings should be able to hear me. I think I may have been “testing” it’s magic because I start to scold my father. “reportate Hugo!” ( show yourself Hugo!), “universe show me that I am the one you choose to break these fucked up cycles, If I am trusted with the weight of this information, give it to me!” I would scream. Silence, silence and a sort of defiance was felt. As it begins to sprinkle I remember to bring out my Pancho and start to put it on without stopping. I wish I could be a fly on the wall while I was doing this because it felt like I was putting on a circus act. Setting up a tent on my body whilst crying and walking up a hill. I can’t make this shit up. I decide to start to cut off early onto the upcoming change in lanes and start to cross the road about 20 feet before indicated and as I step to the first path I am met with a extremely dead bird. A recently dead bird as its little body was still round. I quickly look up and say, “not funny! that was NOT the sign I wanted”. I will regret not taking a picture of this sign.
My body seems to be holding up to the walk just fine on these first 27+- km towards our first stop Foncebadón. I make the decision to not stop, none of the food necessarily called out to me and I was afraid of cooling my muscles too much and not being able to restart without serious discomfort. I think there were a lot of other things that I was scared of to be honest. Blaming it on my body seemed like the most obvious cop out though. I got my first stamp of the camino officially on a portion of the dirt path where the man let us choose what was seal called to us and he would pick the colors as he saw us. I without hesitation selected the tree of life and as if we had known each other in a different life, he chose red, green and silver for my colors. I began understanding the term, “camino angels”. I began believing in the shit I have been telling myself and others for a while now. Everything is happening FOR ME, not TO ME. I would not be the human I am without every fingerprint my father and mother left on my soul and the others that I allowed in as well. I am softening up to the camino and it is cradling me as I start my journey into meeting my 4 doors. I know I will meet with my emotional door first, as I am a walking tear duct at the first 10 km, I fear meeting my physical, I will softly welcome my spiritual and fight against my mental one. Read the first entry as to how my first night ended with pizza made by Giovanni, not stated was that inside the hostel wall I realized there was an posting on a pole that read, “massages by Giovanni” and I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. A few of the woman that I am with remembered the character of ‘Ramon’ in the movie The Proposal with Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds and we had a good laugh about it. Ending the day with laughter, tears and sore muscles will be the pattern the rest of the two week journey. Thank you again for those of you who read this far. I appreciate your support and to those who message me on how my story or parts of resonate with you, I see you. Do the work, I promise, though it is scary it is so worth it.
Pictured: first official Camino stamp in my passport
Love-Clau