07/09/2025 - First day on the Camino.

I just want to preface this article by saying that this entry, and the rest I’ll be posting every day until the end of my pilgrimage, is part of the book I’ve been writing since February. Also, there’s a one-week delay between what I’m living and the entry. Enjoy!

______________________

I tried to write yesterday, the day before starting my journey, but I ended up completely exhausted. Too many movements again, things to do, and organization. I went to the hairdresser, and the woman who cut my hair was called Marie, just like the one who hosted me in Hossegor. I thought it was cute and funny that they both appeared right before the Camino, which, let’s not forget, used to be a Christian pilgrimage. And Marie is, after all, the nurturing, devoted, motherly figure of it.

The hairdresser cut my ends and asked why they were so fragile and dried up. Guess why? Because I’ve been straightening my hair for almost ten years now. Not all of it, most of the time just the pieces at the front. I told her I didn’t like my texture, that it’s not wavy, nor curly, nor straight, just wild. So I preferred to control it, shape it so it looked less messy. But she told me I had completely denatured my texture at this point, and that’s why I was struggling with its natural appearance. That if I embraced my natural state, and cherished it, in a matter of months I’d have luscious hair again.

I didn’t need her to push those words down my ears to know they were true. I’ve been on this journey of loving my natural state for a few years now. And really, which better moment than now? On the Camino, stripped of anything that isn’t my simplest self. Yes, that rang right. So I asked her to cut all the dead ends and just dry it naturally. I bought a small flask of organic oil to help with the frizz, and to structure it a bit. And I committed not to use the small straightener I actually packed with me. I guess I'm going all in.

Same with makeup too. I brought some concealer, powder to set it, and blush, but I don’t feel like putting it on, not even to record myself. I’d rather just fully embrace the core of this experience. If I want something to change within, it requires me to make changes without. And I’ve been embracing the bare face in the past year, feeling confident about it. But with my desire to document my trek, and the recent outburst of pimples, I struggled with the idea of showing myself like this. Of disappointing people who thought I had clear skin, because of course when I did, that’s when I posted it.

But skin changes, evolves constantly, and mine especially, with my fluctuating emotions and hormones, it goes through phases. The European trip completely messed up my cortisol, and it took me a month to get back to my normal state. My body finally deflated, and I feel good in it again, but it was a challenge to watch it change so quickly. My skin is just breathing through those same states, showing externally what happens internally. I don’t necessarily love it, but I have to accept it.

After the hairdresser, I went to the nail salon and took off the permanent polish on both fingers and toes. I wanted to rock the natural look once again. Who’s surprised? Then I had just enough time to go back to the Airbnb, gather my things, before Marie, my airbnb host, offered to drop me closer to the Blablacar (carpooling app) meeting point. I hadn’t eaten yet, so I stopped at a roadside restaurant for a tomato-mozzarella salad with fries. My fav kind of meal. Marie had even made a little cardboard with “Freeway” written on it so I could hitchhike to the meeting point.

Of course, I forgot it on the restaurant table. And to be honest, the idea made me a bit uncomfortable anyway, because of the whole hippy/nomad/hobo persona I’ve resisted identifying with (remember my reflections on vanlife). But then I pushed my resistance aside and put my thumb up. Not even a minute later, a car stopped. Raphael, the driver, was a cool guy in his thirties, used to taking hitchhikers apparently. We talked a bit, it felt relaxed, and he dropped me at the Darty parking lot. I went inside to buy an SD card for the camera Johana lent me, and then my Blablacar arrived.

It was a nice couple driving down from Paris. They’d already taken a bunch of people, and there were two of us booked to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. The ride took an hour. I read most of the way, starting to feel the weight of the day, and a slight anxiety about what the Camino really entailed.

We arrived in the center of this beautiful French town. And I wished I took the time to wander around, but I had too many missions to accomplish. I went straight to the Pilgrim’s Office, and seeing the queue in front, I actually decided to head to the hostel first.

A 12-minute uphill walk later, I arrived at a beautiful big house. A smiling couple welcomed me warmly. They just had a baby, and ran this hostel with their hearts, wanting to give pilgrims a good start. I felt instantly at ease there. Heidi, the woman, took care of me by showing me around, giving me advices, and encouragements for my journey ahead.

Later I returned to the Office for my “Carnet de Pèlerin" which is a small booklet in which I'll get stamps in all the town I cross on my way to Santiago. Gives me the thrill already, like quest collectibles. An old woman with sharp eyes asked asked for 2€ while handling it to me. I froze. Not a single coin in my pocket. I never use cash, only Apple Pay, and mostly didn't think ahead. She told me firmly that I should always carry some for the Camino, which I agreed on. And had no choice but to go back to the hostel, get my physical card, withdraw money, and return. Annoying? Yes. But I decided to see it as my first challenge on the path. Certainly being not the last.

Finally, booklet in hand, I went to get dinner in a restaurant with a cute patio. The sunset light peaking through, I enjoyed my steak while contemplating the information papers the office gave me. Then, headed back to the hostel once again, quite drained from this day. When I finally went to bed, the big problem surfaced: I hadn’t booked anything for the coming nights. My hosts had just warned me it was peak season. And after checking on booking, airbnb, and every websites; everything was fully booked. The thought started spinning me into light panic. Would I have a bed? Could I handle the hardest stretch of the Camino, 24.4 km, with more than 15 uphill? Why did I want to do this in the first place? Was it going to destroy my body? Was it even worth it? But then, I looked at my phone: 22:22. Simple but efficient for a delulu mind like mine. I breathed deeply, found a little trust, and finally drifted to sleep.

I woke at 4:45, before my alarm. At 6, I was the first one at the breakfast table, eating fresh warm baguette that Manu, the host, got at the bakery. Spread a copious amount of butter, sea salt, and enjoyed this little comfort. Honestly, as a real french lady, I claim that I could eat that every day. Manu also kindly offered to drop me 3 km further on the path to give me a head start, and I accepted. I struggled with the tought of "cheating" at first, but he was straightforward; I'll only have a bed if I arrived in the first ones at the municipal hostel tonight. This and the fact that I'm not here to suffer like a penitent pilgrim, but to stay open, flexible, and receptive to what comes, made me accept eagerly.

The day’s walk was intense. Almost all uphill, and at first, in total darkness without headlamp. My bag felt heavy but bearable. I didn’t put on music or podcasts, just stayed with myself, step after step. I received my first gift when the sun rose, and the sky declined in a hues of reds and oranges. The landscapes were breathtaking, so sharp with wilderness, and intensity. The wind was so strong it made me lose balance a couple of time, and I can still hear the over-encompassing noise ringing in my ears. I asked the land for welcome, thought of all those who walked this path before, and will after. The horses, the sheep, the lush green hills, it was magical.

After four hours, a flat stretch gave me relief. I entered a pathway through forrest, which was a change of scenery. I called my dad and sister, my pillars. My dad especially, who walked it himself, is such an inspiration. And I shared my first impressions with them. I also filmed some moments with the camera too, trying to record my raw experience. Then came the descent, an hour and a half, steep and hard on the knees. But I stayed present, focused. By the end, I couldn't even feel my legs anymore, nro remember fully what happened in the last 6 hours.

And I finally arrived to Roncesvalles. The cathedral in front of me, pride and accomplishment flooding me. Dopamine rushed through. God, I love the reward hormone. Me, who doubted last night, here I was at 11:20, first to arrive. The pilgrim hostel, or more so an incredible, huge stone building with thick walls, ancient wood, high ceilings, welcomed me. A volunteer confirmed beds were available straight away, and I jumped with joy inside. Trust, a little help, an a great fucking endurance was enough after all.

I went straight to get lunch in the bar next door; a tortilla and iberico ham-tomato sandwich. The tortilla, creamy, soft, gooey, reminded me of my grandma's one. Then, back to the hostel where I could claim my bed, shower, nap, stretch, read, and write in a large dormitory under the roofs. Ordinary pilgrim rituals. Extraordinary in their simplicity. And a routine that I'll enjoy for the rest of the trip.

Dinner was communal, the food average, but the company grew warm. At first the silence was dense, then laughter began. Around the table were many people but I sympathized with two Australian girls, and a German guy who kept on glancing at me. Funny, teasing, structured, maybe rigid, but with a spark. We’ll probably cross paths again tomorrow. And now, back in bed, teeth brushed, ready to slide into sleep. Earplugs, eye mask, book in hand. Day one is done. Tomorrow, the next chapter begins.

With love, Loune.