Welcoming stories in Korea
Seoul station is busy. I am busy, trying to find the right bus stop across a number of platforms, and my joy after suddenly spotting it wears off quickly, as I notice a set of lines spreading from the platform onto a street. I join one of them, fidgeting in the clouds of bus exhaust fumes and clouds of breath made visible in the temperature approaching freezing. I am approaching the limit of my patience, as I cannot wait to sit in a warm bus, filling my empty stomach with a kimchi snack freezing in my pocket. But the patience gods smile at me, when an older Korean gentleman waiting in the same line looks back at me and greets me, distracting me from my kimchi-driven hunger. I employ a smile-and-nod strategy as my Korean language skills are nothing to write home about, but he is really eager to talk, fumbling with his phone to find a translation app, and now we are talking. As soon as I pronounce and repeat the name of Lithuania, he googles it and then proceeds to read Lithuania's page on Wikipedia. He reads it for three or four solid minutes, with the kind of focus I haven't witnessed in a while. When his translation app doesn't take him far enough, he proudly introduces me to a Korean lady in a nearby line - she just arrived today! she is from Lithuania! - and the lady recommends another translation app, he downloads it on the spot, and off we go. He explains that he is studying English, shows me his English homework, confirms that he is a local. I only ask a thing or two, otherwise stepping back and observing this incredible dance of welcoming hospitality and kind curiosity. When I give up hope to board my bus after waiting for almost an hour, I say goodbye to my dedicated line colleague and set off to walk to a different bus stop. There, I finally snack on my chilly kimbap, having realised that eating on buses is not allowed, ready to give up at least a half of it just to get to my guesthouse before the last bits of warmth leave my body.
The evening at the guesthouse is quiet. I am quiet, listening to my Korean host sharing worries about his son’s career and issues that he sees in the Korean society. We talk about elections and demographic issues - it’s a similar story everywhere, after all - and as the conversation moves from global to personal, he reflects on challenges in parenting, wanting the best for children, and that very wish resulting into pressure, making kids struggle. He pours tea slowly, from high up, all his attention focused on it. He observes that the tea is too bitter. We drink the tea anyway. His wife comes back from a cooking class and starts cooking to show what she has learned, serving beautiful egg and bacon breakfast tacos with Korean spices for dinner, as her husband wonders why the hell all Western food is eaten by hands - why can't they use chopsticks? - while I gently challenge him on that as a reluctant representative of all the Western food, as he quotes burgers and pizza and tacos as examples. We talk for hours. Which feels quite different from the usual where's-your-passport-here’s-your-bill type of check-in.
The morning at the guesthouse is sunny. I am sunny, listening to my host's wife expressing deep gratitude to her ancestors for what she has, even though she didn't have much in her childhood and created most of her fortune herself. As she struggled with her health, a cancer that visited her still at the peak of her youth, she focused on the great gifts that she has been given. She says her parents gave her a lot of love. And you can sense that. She says you can lose things, but your health is what matters. We speak for hours as sun floods the room, with light jazz flooding pauses in between of stories. She says they had built the house so that windows would be showered by sunshine, especially in winter. The position of every door and window thought out carefully and deliberately. I feel at home in their house, in its cosy spaciousness, book-covered walls, a piano at a kitchen table - and a separate fridge just for kimchi, I kid you not. She serves a beef seaweed soup, it's a birthday soup, yesterday was their son's birthday, and that's what's served for birthday breakfast. When I ask about the origins of it, her husband replies that this soup is given to women who have just given birth, so that they can regain their strength. And so, it is served on one's birthday. As she places the bowls of soup on the table, she grabs a pair of chopsticks, takes some meet from her husband's bowl, and adds it into mine, smiling conspiratorially. They eat slowly. I eat as slowly as I can, and yet they laugh that I must have been really hungry.
Seoul welcomes me, my eyes full of wonder, I welcome the stories that it shares with me so generously:
Through its graceful temples with giant golden buddhas sitting comfortably on the heated floor, elephant-shaped flower sculptures decorating the entrances to the shrines, the scent of incense melting into crisp November air, candles flickering in the wind, the monks walking slowly towards the lantern-lit gates;
Through its traditional teahouses with floor seating, as well as intricate instructions on how to make a cup of tea - you can pour the water on the lotus tea leaves for up to seven times - while nibbling on a steamed pumpkin rice cake;
Through its colourful wooden palaces and foreigners running around them in the traditional Korean dresses, through restaurants offering bibimbap bowls and street stands baking steamy bungeoppang - red bean paste-filled pastries shaped like fish - that warm your hands when strolling down a road on a cold winter's night, through the grocery stores using cartoon characters to sell anything from cookies to electricity plugs; through an enthusiastic lady sitting next to me on the metro heading to the airport, insisting on helping me create an itinerary for my next visit to Seoul.
The night at the guesthouse is still, I am still, as a secret is unravelled in front of me. This glowing Korean lady, grace at every step, smiles as we sit at a table. "When my husband dies, I'll go to New York, to study. That's my dream", she says.
And all I can do is to welcome her dream, the dream to be the best host possible and the dream to live in New York, to welcome questions and grins, and a quarter of a persimmon gifted straight into my palm, to welcome curiosity and help, the airport worker abandoning her post just to help me find the way, to welcome stories pouring out of every person met, to welcome their worries and secret wishes, to welcome my own imperfect humanity unravelling in these dark chilly streets, around these enlightening warm human beings.
Walking 1000 kilometres in Spain
I woke up, realising I had a dream I overslept. As if starting a 1000km walk was something akin to an exam, restless excitement blocking any hope of peaceful sleep. It was still just after 5am, and I was about to start my Camino de Santiago.
I left the albergue — pilgrims’ lodging — as the sun was coming up over the quiet town of Saint Jean Pied de Port, after a meditative ceremony called Pilgrims’ blessing — a cramped living room, standing in a circle, Sweet Surrender playing in the background, everyone focusing on their intentions, then surrendering their intentions, and taking a deep breath in to welcome the excitement of the trip ahead.
And what a trip it was.
People carry different intentions. Ian was mourning his mother’s death, while writing the speech for his daughter’s wedding. Martin was changing his life around, and starting to do so with a walk from Germany to Spain. Some people just walked while they could. I met a couple, Kay and Malcom, and later learned that Malcom was 87 years old, while Kay was 78 (a baby, she said). People were carrying ashes of their loved ones, processing their breakups, processing their retirement, deliberating their next career move, exploring the world after high school graduation, searching for their identity after raising children, worshipping the nature by singing to it, walking the Camino for the dozenth time because that’s where they felt at home.
I set out to walk the Camino alone. Many people do. I was going to walk along plains and fields, cross streams and mountains, an idyllic postcard of quiet nature. And while I walked plains and fields, crossed streams and mountains, I often did so with other people, often nodding my first Buen Camino way before the break of dawn. That’s how I met Julien, emerging from a forest with his bright headlamp and energetic stride, responding to hooting owls (by hooting back), running his fingers through the bushes in passing, capturing leaves, investigating them, letting go of them. All while telling stories of staying in a tent while walking the Camino, rain or shine. All told with way too much energy for a pre-7am encounter. Before coffee, mind you.
After the 20–30–40 kilometre walks, sweaty and craving a shower (we all agreed that we always craved showers more than the comfort of a proper bed or favourite food – I guess showers is what, after all, makes us human), the pilgrims would arrive into an albergue, hopefully, with beds still available (I took the last bed a couple of times, and after a long long walk it felt like winning a lottery – especially if it turned out to be the lower bunk). Albergues often became the sources of the most social experiences, waiting in lines for laundry and striking a conversation, waiting in lines at a village grocery store and striking a conversation, cooking a dinner together and striking a conversation, laying in bed, at a busy dorm, and striking a conversation. You get the idea. Lots of people. Lots of conversations. Sometimes I would wake up and start walking, realising I feel socially exhausted, as I may have ended up spending the whole day around others, engaged deeply. And there’s so much to engage about, people carry fascinating stories.
Saleigh, an Australian anthropologist focused on indigenous pre-verbal wisdom, appeared in a hammock next to me on a peaceful afternoon at an albergue, and we ended up talking about plant medicine and philosophy, covering Alan Watts and Ram Dass, Joseph Campbell and Carl Jung. She was also a photographer. Her dog’s name was Buddha.
Nick, an almost-retired American military lieutenant, who sat next to me during the dinner in a spacious church garden, as we were chatting about the US gun laws and systemic racism (as you do), then running into each other a day later and covering everything from jiu-jitsu to aliens (it was a 33km walk, it took a while).
Jamie, yet another Australian who came into my life after little sleep in a loud dorm, accompanying me at a 6am walk to escape the snores and screams, to stand united against wild boars, and to discuss corporate culture, national identity and courage to love, while laughing into the Spanish dawn (corporate culture is hilarious, after all).
I met all these people over and over again. Unplanned, often unexpected. I’m saying often, because sometimes a wish to see someone would form in my mind, and they’d appear in front of me. Just like that. We called it Camino magic, getting exactly what you needed, when you needed it.
Camino magic was often facilitated by the connections with people. You’d meet someone, they’d point to your swollen ankle, you’d tell them about your ailment, they’d tell you about a physician they met a week ago, that physician would appear (magically, of course) a few minutes later, sharing no languages in common, and would start working on your suffering tendons, healing them in minutes. True story, by the way. That would happen in less mysterious circumstances too, people hearing about your need and providing all you need in moments. On the Camino you don’t carry much, you rely on the infrastructure of the way, yes, but you also rely on the infrastructure of kindness, giving away your anti-inflammatory jells, bandages and gingerbread to someone in need, knowing that you’ll be taken care of by someone else when the time comes.
And the time comes, often.
And the help is there, always.
Giving and letting go are big themes on the Camino. Most albergues have a corner with a box for things you may wish to leave. Those boxes tend to be full. Brand new sleeping bags, warm jackets, books and what not. Especially at the very beginning of the path, people carrying three pairs of shoes and a couple of extra blankets would end up shedding that weight, having realised how little they need. And I can’t help but think that in our civilian life we have quite the opposite tendency to crave more and to take more.
Take take take.
While on the Camino we carry so much, literally and figuratively, and when you feel the weight, and hence the burden, of everything you carry, so viscerally, you don’t really want much, so Camino becomes an exercise in letting go of all that we don’t need in that moment, trusting that it will be there when we need it.
Let go let go let go.
It is one of the reasons why Camino feels like such a unique place, a different dimension, really. It’s not only the scenery or the shared experience with others, it’s this sense of care that elevates it to an almost otherworldly experience. It is created by people around you. And it’s not just other pilgrims.
There are also all of the albergue owners, offering their unrelenting care for exhausted, grumpy, sweaty pilgrims day after day after day, greeting you with fresh water and sweet tea, breathing with you (yes, literally sitting you down and breathing together, until you breath like a human being at peace, and until you feel like one), cooking the food, lining their gardens with ropes for drying your hand-washed laundry, sharing their guitars (I’ve never sang as much of Bob Dylan as on the Camino, and probably never will), sharing sunsets, listening to pilgrims’ stories deeply and writing personalised letters at night, so that on the breakfast table sleepy achy walkers would find a hand-written piece of paper with enough encouragement to tackle another day.
There are pharmacists, willing to be your doctors as well, diagnosing pilgrims on the spot, with an unbeatable share of enthusiasm and support. I swear I met the world’s most upbeat pharmacist in Navarette.
There are also people working in the fields that pilgrims go along, a few of them saw me taking photos of grape harvest, and started encouraging me to eat some, picking bunches of purple and green ones, and pilling them up in my hands, until no more could fit. I repeated a dozen thank-yous in my humble Spanish and carried on, snacking on grapes and thinking how every single person on the Camino contributes to this ineffable atmosphere of it.
Just as much magic is created in a very mundane way. The body moving outdoors the whole day. Some days, walking through soft sunrises in the mountains, birds chirping, sheep waking to graze in the fields. Other days, walking through a rainstorm in the darkness of a land untouched by a sunrise yet, while sharp gusts of wind freeze your soaked body, I would end up singing Disney tunes, desperately trying to focus on something other than that very body that is experiencing this madness. And struggling to. That’s the thing, once you get used to focusing on the experience, distractions become way less attractive. I didn’t really feel like listening to music or audiobooks most of the time, I just wanted to be in tune with my step, the clinking of my hiking poles, sensing sun and wind, gazing at planetarium-level stars before dawn, thinking about showers or bed bug-less beds, thinking about nothing. So, not thinking at all.
Camino experience was grounding, it graciously allowed me to forget silly worries clouding my mind, that was bombarded by so many different stimuli in the day to day life. Camino days felt busy — you walked, you showered, you did laundry, you found food, you consumed food, by the time you were done with your chores, it was usually bed time. On the one hand, it could be called a distraction, you distract yourself away from thoughts, but on the other hand it’s simply the focused mindful experience, that doesn’t let worries in, because those worries never really arise in the first place. I could worry about getting a bed that day or finding food on an emptier stretch, but it would be even a stretch to call it a worry. Walking miles and miles a day, focusing on your body moving, focusing on very simple manual actions, allowed for a simpler existence, which allowed me to go back to the core. What do I actually enjoy. What feels right.
You can only experience it fully once you let go of any expectations, and in a way you do, focusing on the pain in your ankles rather than pain of your memories, focusing on the stories of others rather than your own narrative. But in the end, that’s exactly what brings you back to your intentions.
As my Camino was inching towards the end, I would often catch myself in bluesy mood, resisting the change of the last 100 kilometres, which became much more crowded with new pilgrims. The fatigue was taking its toll, more and more morning chats started with stories of stolen sleep due to noisy bunk neighbours, unfriendly pilgrims or other complaints. One morning I ran into Saleigh, she was telling me a sad story, and as I shared one of my own, she suddenly exclaimed, that this is our process of integration — we can’t just stumble straight from our magic Camino land into the real world, as we called it. We were offered these mild annoyances as an opportunity to remember what the daily life can be like. Take every trigger as an opportunity to embrace the world in all its imperfections, bit by bit, Saleigh said. It’s a privilege, really, a blessing, not to be overwhelmed with it all at once, to have a chance to readjust to it slowly.
Then we reached Santiago, and, of course, got overwhelmed (while being underwhelmed at the same time, as my friend Mathias put it). Then some of us went all the way to the ocean, some of us had celebratory gelato, some of us never saw each other again. Camino taught us to let go in more ways than one. Having fascinating experiences, encounters, interactions, gifts without craving more. And if you took only one conclusion out of this whole story, that would have to be it:
Let go let go let go.