Brandon Hikes

Author: Brandon Meyer

  • Encuentro con los toros

    Encuentro con los toros

    I woke up in Puente la Reina with a slight hangover from last night’s beers, but water and exercise are the best cure, so I was in luck. I started hiking just after 7 a.m., and soon hit a gnarly, steep uphill climb that felt endless. Pilgrims were pulled over on the side of the incline from top to bottom, catching their breath, and I joined them for a quick break, laughing with a Dutch pilgrim who blamed his struggle on the previous night’s wine. The view at the top—rolling fields under a pale overcast sky—made the burn worthwhile.

    Puente la Reina

    At 9 a.m. I cut through Cirauqui, a hilltop village with cobbled streets and stone houses. At the town’s exit, I walked a well-preserved Roman road, its ancient cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of travelers, leading to a small bridge with a single, sturdy arch that’s stood since the days of the emperors.

    Old Roman road leaving Cirauqui
    Roman bridge at Cirauqui

    With soreness and back pain from the previous day easing, I felt strong enough to bypass Estella, pushing 18 miles via an alternative route to Villamayor de Monjardin. Things were going smoothly until I crossed the Ega River and Google Maps told me to turn right onto a road. Two sets of large metal gates blocked the way, so I unlatched and relatched them. The trail continued through a pasture, and as I began to crest the hill, my heart sank. Off in the distance, I could make out several large pitch-black silhouettes with white horns.

    Fuck, Fuck, Fuck.

    I’d inadvertently wandered into a bull pasture.

    GPS tracks of my encounter with los toros.

    I slowly retrieved my phone from my right pocket and double-checked Google Maps and FarOut—a hiking map app. The path seemed accurate. I’ve walked through cow pastures before, but this is Spain. And these were gigantic black bulls. With sharp and shiny horns. And I am not a matador. I took a few seconds to consider my options and quietly and carefully backtracked through the pasture, unlatched and relatched the gates, and retraced my steps to the bridge over the Ega where I’d turned right. Rounding the corner, I quickly identified my mistake when I spotted an overgrown hiking trail hugging the fenceline of the pasture.

    Los Toros from the correct path.

    Heart still racing, I continued on, finally reaching a hostel in Villamayor de Monjardin run by Dutch volunteers. When I arrived, it looked like I would have the place all to myself. At about 6 p.m., I was joined by two brothers—Alden and Grant—from Michigan. We spent an hour talking comedy and politics.

    I showered, turned down dinner, and went to bed early to try and get a good night’s rest.

    The approach to Villamayor de Monjardin

  • ¿Cuánto cuesta una cerveza grande?

    I kicked off at 7:40 AM from Cizur Menor, feeling light on my feet after paying 6 euros to have my pack transported to Puente la Reina. The morning started with a steep climb out of Pamplona, made trickier by a 2-mile detour around a washout—likely from the previous day’s thunderstorms.

    Three hours in, I rolled into the tiny central square of Zariquiegui. The village’s 12th-century church, San Andrés, caught my eye with its Romanesque arches and weathered stone facade. I spent a few quiet moments inside, admiring the stonework and architecture, before popping into the corner store for a couple of pastries.

    The trail climbed toward the Alto del Perdón, where white windmills loomed larger with every step. In the distance, I could make out the iconic silhouettes of the steel pilgrim sculptures. The rusted figures, pilgrims frozen in mid-stride, are one of the most recognizable public art displays on the Camino Frances. The view was breathtaking.

    The steel statues of Alto del Perdón

    I scrambled onto a rocky outcrop off the trail and set up my phone to record a timelapse of the windmills and clouds. Then came the descent—a nightmare of loose rocks ranging from pingpong to tennis ball size. Every step threatened to roll an ankle. But as the path leveled out, I was greeted by a sea of green wheatfields stretching all the way to the horizon, dotted with vibrant red poppies blooming along the trail. It was like walking through a painting.

    By 12:30, I hit the small village of Uterga. I pulled up to the bar and ordered a “grande cerveza”—a 16oz draft that set me back 4.50 euros. For a region that appears economically depressed, these beer prices are starting to feel like highway robbery.

    I breezed through Muruzabal and Obanos without stopping, arriving at Hotel Jakue on the outskirts of Puente la Reina around 2:15 PM. My Apple AirTag showed my pack hadn’t arrived yet, so I joined Tom, a Scottish musician with a knack for storytelling, for a few beers. We dove deep into the history of American and British rock—Dylan and the Beatles, to ABBA and REM. Soon, Scott and Mary, a couple from Brisbane, joined us. Our conversation zigzagged from hiking routes in New Zealand and Australia to a surprising Florida connection: their nephew plays basketball for FGCU, just a stone’s throw from where I used to live near Fort Myers. Beers flowed for four hours, each one costing 6 euros. By the end, I was properly intoxicated and my wallet was noticeably lighter.

    Around 6 PM, I pinged my AirTag—my pack had finally arrived at Albergue Padres Reparadores, my hostel for the night. I checked in, took a much-needed shower, and made my bed in the dorm-style room. Then I joined Tom and Alex for dinner at a nearby steakhouse. The food was good, the beers kept coming, and by the time I stumbled back to the hostel, I was ready to crash. I passed out on my bunk, the day’s 14+ miles and countless conversations swirling in my head.

    Today was a reminder of why I love walking the Camino: the physical challenge, the stunning landscapes, and the unexpected connections with strangers who feel like old friends by the end of the day. The rocky descent tested my patience, the poppies lifted my spirits, and the beer prices tested my resolve to stick to a budget. Tomorrow, I’ll keep walking, keep talking, and maybe start asking for beer prices upfront.

  • Hemingway, Flamenco, and Forbidden Topics

    Hemingway, Flamenco, and Forbidden Topics

    I woke at 7:15 a.m. to the sound of birds chirping and a swollen Arga river rushing from yesterday’s heavy rains. My calves and thighs were sore from the prior days’ hikes, so I popped a couple Advil.

    The Arga River after a night of rain

    In the kitchen, I perused a Basque guidebook while two pilgrims, Martha from the Netherlands and Mary from Ireland, chatted nearby. Upon learning I was American, they immediately dove into two of the three forbidden topics. Mary asked my opinion on Donald Trump, and Martha wanted to discuss American Evangelism. I sidestepped Mary’s question with Marcus Aurelius’ line, “You always own the option of having no opinion.”

    But Evangelism? I grew up in Lynchburg, Virginia. I explained the core mission of evangelists: to save souls from eternal damnation. Some do this loudly with megaphones and signs at public events, like Westboro Baptist Church, while others take a quieter approach, coaxing neighbors to church functions.

    Martha cut in. “I understand all that. I want to hear about tongues and snakes.”

    Alright, I thought, straight to the good stuff. “Are you familiar with Pentecostalism?” I didn’t bother explaining. I pulled out my laptop, opened YouTube, and played a scene from Sacha Baron Cohen’s Borat—the one where Cohen’s character goes to church to get saved. They weren’t ready. Both women erupted in uncontrollable laughter. Halfway through, when Borat asks if Jesus loves his neighbor, Mary, crying from laughing so hard, begged me to stop.

    “Nobody like my neighbor Nursultan Tulyiagby.”

    I let it run a little bit longer, closed my laptop, and put my pack on.

    I set out from Zubiri, passing a magnesium smelting facility a quarter-mile outside town. Cresting a hill, the valley to Pamplona opened before me. The sky was gray, with clouds hanging low over the landscape. The cool air after the rain felt like natural air conditioning.

    Magnesium smelting operation outside of Zubiri

    After five miles, the Camino rejoined the Rio Arga. At 10:30 a.m., I crossed the river at Zuriain and stopped at La Parada, a trailside café, for a roast ham bocadillo. A pair of flamenco guitarists, who appeared to be father and son, strummed away in a corner, their music filling the air.

    Crossing the Arga into Zuriain. La Parada is on the left.

    As I approached Pamplona, the trail climbed up the side of a ridge above the Arga and passed through a gorge. The path rounded the mountain to the west, revealing the first glimpse of Pamplona—a small cluster of white stucco-on-stone buildings with red tile roofs at the base of a lush green hill. Another turn to the southwest brought the city proper into view.

    The northern outskirts of Pamplona

    I crossed the medieval Trinity Bridge over a swollen Ulzama River into Villava. During the short distance from the river to Pamplona, I walked into a gigantes y cabezudos performance. Literally, giants and big heads. It’s a tradition which apparently goes back centuries.

    Trinity Bridge on the Ulzama River

    After that bit of distraction, it took me about an hour to reach the city center. I walked into Café Iruña, saddled up to the bar, and ordered a cerveza, patatas bravas, and tarta de manzana—all recommended by fellow pilgrims. One step inside, and it’s clear why Hemingway spent so much time here. Places like this, with their timeless charm, just aren’t common anymore.

    Cafe Iruna
    The interior of Cafe Iruna
    Patatas Bravas

    After a quick meal, I stuck to my original plan and hiked another two miles to Albergue Sanjuanista de la Orden de Malta in Cizur Menor. Along the way, the trail passed through the University of Navarre. It may just be one of the most beautiful campuses on earth.

    The grounds of Universidad de Navarra

    At 3:45 p.m. I arrived at the hostel, took a shower, and did a bit of laundry in an outdoor sink. I’ve stayed here before—it’s spartan, but adding these extra miles today sets me up for an easier walk to Puente la Reina tomorrow.

    Pamplona
  • The Sun Also Rises

    The Sun Also Rises

    I woke at 6:30 a.m. to the sound of church bells and chanting monks, punctuated by a Dutch hospitalero ringing a small red bell to rouse any lingering sleepers across the floors. For €15, you get a bed, but not a late checkout—hospitaleros need time to reset nearly 200 bed spaces for the day’s incoming pilgrims. I was packed and out the door by 7:15 a.m., heading 14 miles southwest to Zubiri.

    Roncesvalles Monastery

    Leaving the monastery, I followed a dirt path running parallel to the main road toward Burguete. The air was alive with the chirping of birds, their songs echoing through the surrounding forests of oak and beech. The early morning light filtered through the trees, casting a soft glow on the path ahead.

    A sign outside the monastery show the distance, by car, to Santiago. It’s one of the most photographed places on The Camino

    This area holds a special place for me because of its prominence in Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises. The Roncesvalles monastery gets a mention as the characters pass through en route to Burguete, one of the novel’s key settings. Hemingway visited at least twice to fish the Irati River for trout—in 1924 and again in 1925, just before Pamplona’s San Fermín festival, a century ago. The landscape likely looks much as it did then. Without Hemingway’s spotlight, Burguete might be best known for a grim 16th-century episode when five alleged witches were burned at the stake.

    The main thoroughfare through Burguete

    I reached Burguete around 8 a.m. and took a few photos of Hostal Burguete, the hotel where Hemingway, his wife, and friends stayed. I’d love to book his room on a future visit.

    Hostal Burguete hosted Hemingway in room 23 during his visits to the area

    Leaving Burguete, I approached a barn full of cows. As I passed, one cow walked toward the fence, seemingly to meet me. I thought it might want head scratches, but it was only interested in the fresh water leaking from the rain gutter.

    That’s one strange cow.

    I didn’t linger—severe thunderstorms were forecast to start at noon, and I was determined to secure a bed at the Rio Arga Hostel in Zubiri, which overlooks the river and has been on my list of places to stay for years. I’d messaged the owners the night before for a reservation, but they requested my credit card number and expiration date via WhatsApp to confirm. Unwilling to share that information over chat, my best option was to arrive first.

    Not so fun fact: Spain is the leading producer of horse meat in the EU. Roughly 88% of this production originates in the northern provinces.

    I powered through the day, stopping only for water and to don a poncho during a brief period of drizzle. The terrain was mostly downhill, but carrying my pack made the minor uphill sections noticeable. I arrived in Zubiri at half past noon, crossed the 12th-century Gothic “Bridge of Rabies,” and entered Albergue Rio Arga Ibaia. I beat both the rain and the crowd, becoming the first to check in. The owner, Sabina, had me in a room overlooking the bridge and river in under five minutes. Hospitaleros could learn a thing or two from her.

    The view of The Bridge of Rabies and the Arga River from my room.

    Spain’s Saturday is like the American South’s Sunday—most places are closed from mid-afternoon until morning. After stowing my gear in a locker, and before businesses shuttered for the day, I walked a few blocks to Txatxoberri, a bakery, for a ham and cheese bocadillo, beer, and a chocolate croissant the size of my head. As I ate, the skies opened, and rain poured down. I dashed across the street to the town’s only grocer, grabbing beer and ingredients for Alfredo pasta for dinner, then sprinted three blocks back to the albergue to avoid getting soaked.

    Lunch at Txatxoberri

    I’m haven’t decided where I’ll end up tomorrow, but I’m thinking of passing through Pamplona to a hostel in Cizur Manor, stopping only to grab a drink and a bite to eat at Café Iruña—one of Hemingway’s favorite haunts.

    An audio version of The Sun Also Rises is available free on YouTube:

  • …y eso es justo lo que harán

    …y eso es justo lo que harán

    I awoke in Orisson at 7 a.m. and walked across the road to the dining room for breakfast—toasted baguettes with butter and assorted jams—standard European fare.

    Toast for breakfast

    Thirty minutes into my day, I packed up my daypack and backpack, arranging for the blessed Donkey Service to transport the bulk of my belongings over the Pyrenees into Spain to the monastery at Roncesvalles. I bought a ham and cheese bocadillo and took to the road.

    Livestock lined the trail as I continued the climb—first cows, then horses. At the highest elevations, sheep. The weather was mild enough for shorts and a thin shirt. My back pain returned, but the views, as before, proved an adequate distraction. I left the Advil in the pack.

    Sheep
    Goodbye, horses

    The day required ascending 2,000 feet over eight miles to the near-mile-high Lepoeder Pass, followed by a three-mile, 1,600-foot descent to Roncesvalles. Just before the pass, I stopped by Refugio Izandorre, a small stone emergency shelter with solar panels and various instruments and transmitters, and ate my sandwich. I concluded the hut would make an adequate home.

    Refugio Izandorre emergency shelter

    Crossing the border into Spain, I opted for an alternate route, avoiding the steep, wooded descent most pilgrims choose. I followed the road west down to the valley below before cutting back east toward the monastery.

    A view of Roncesvalles Monastery from the alternate route. The small town of Burguete, Hemingway’s home while writing The Sun Also Rises, is in the background.

    I arrived at the monastery at 1:20 p.m. and stood in line until 2 p.m. when the hospitaleros unlocked the check-in office’s door. The Dutch volunteers were dedicated, but like the pilgrims’ office in St. Jean Pied de Port, they prioritized thoroughness over efficiency. With only two volunteers handling check-ins, the process dragged on for more than an hour.

    A near unbearable wait

    I was assigned a top bunk on the second floor of the 12th-century main building. The partitioned bunks offered some degree of privacy, a relief compared to the fifth floor’s wallless room, where up to 100 pilgrims will sleep in the open like refugees inside a relief tent.

    Monastery at Roncesvalles

    I took a long, hot shower and spent a couple of hours writing syllabi and publishing assignments for two online courses I’ll teach this summer. I prefer not to work summers, but the last-minute offer was too lucrative to turn down—it’ll cover the cost of this trip and all my bills back home twice over.

    Last time I was here, dinner was fried trout—tail and all. According to Hemingway, it’s an area staple. I decided to fast until i pass through Burguete in the morning.

    My meal in Roncesvalles in 2014
  • Ces bottes sont faites pour marcher…

    Ces bottes sont faites pour marcher…

    I fell asleep around 1 a.m., delayed by loud snoring from three of the eight people in my hostel room. I woke at 6:30 a.m. and took my time getting ready, with only 4.8 miles to cover today.

    The forecast predicted cloudy skies and temperatures in the 60s, so I wore shorts and a long-sleeve tee, packing a jacket and pants in my daypack in case the weather shifted.

    A view of the Nive Valley from 2,000’

    For €8, a pack transport company, the Donkey Service, transported my backpack to Orisson. I stopped at a nearby bakery for a croissant and to get change for the fee.

    My bag prepped for pickup by The Donkey Service

    Even without my pack, the climb out of St. Jean into the Pyrenees was grueling. My back ached much of the day. The scenery helped distract from the pain.

    Climbing above tree line.

    I reached Orisson, a small restaurant and hostel carved into the hillside, around 10:30 a.m. I ordered a ham and cheese bocadillo with a blond Basque beer. The ham was dry-cured Serrano, a staple of Spanish and Basque cuisine, paired with white cheddar on a soft baguette. I will be eating many of these over the next two months.

    Orisson Refuge is situated on the mountainside with a spectacular view

    At 11 a.m., I checked into the hostel early and was assigned to an 8-person bunk room overlooking the Nive Valley. A reservation to stay here must be booked months in advance. The experience is legendary in the pilgrimage community.

    I crawled onto my bed for a nap, fell asleep almost immediately, and didn’t wake until 4 p.m.

    My bunk room at Orisson Refuge

    Due to my short day, Alex, Mark, and Vince, who pushed another 11 miles to Roncesvalles—my destination for tomorrow—are now a full day ahead of me.

    At 6:30 a.m., all 50 or so guests gathered in the restaurant for a communal three-course dinner: wine, bread, gazpacho, sliced pork with gravy and baked beans, and Basque cake. Afterward, each person introduced themselves and shared their reasons for walking the Camino. Most were in transition—recent graduates, jobless, retirees, or facing midlife crises. Since I’ll likely be around these people for much of my journey to Santiago, these early icebreakers help in finding a group.

    A communal dinner at Orisson Refuge.

    Though it doesn’t get dark until after 10 a.m., we were all in bed by 9.

  • Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port

    Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port

    I woke at 7 a.m., about twenty minutes before the night train pulled into Bayonne. At the station, a crowd of pilgrims were clustered around the departures board. The morning train to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, the start of the Camino Francés, had been canceled due to an impromptu French train strike. I checked Google Maps for alternatives and found a bus route—lines 41 and 61—that would get me to Saint-Jean by 11:30 a.m. for just €3.80. Taxi drivers outside were charging €120–€300 for the 45-minute ride, so the bus was a no-brainer. I shared my plan with a small group of pilgrims I’d met since Paris, and a few minutes later, I was leading a dozen or so pilgrims across the river to the bus stop.

    Waiting for our second bus in Arrabotü Handia

    The 41 bus to Arrabotü Handia arrived on time, and within fifteen minutes, the 61 bus to Saint-Jean pulled up. The drive through the Pyrenees was striking—lush green peaks towering over quaint Basque villages.

    Three guys I’d chatted with—Vince and Graham from Perth, Australia, and Alex from Austin, Texas—joined me for the walk from the bus stop into town. We stopped at a bakery for chocolate croissants and coffee, then headed to the pilgrims’ office for our Camino credentials and first stamp.

    Chocolate croissant and dark chocolate nut cluster from Barbier Millox – Artizarra

    We found the office closed for lunch, so we split up for an hour to sort out lodging. The front-desk clerk at my hostel let me store my bag in a locker despite check-in not being until 4 p.m., saving me the hassle of lugging it around. Alex, who hadn’t pre-booked, reserved a bed online and stored his bag there too.

    Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port

    At 1 p.m., we met for lunch at Comme a la Maison, joined by a fifth pilgrim, Tony from Japan. Interestingly, Tony had lived in both Austin and Perth, connecting him to Alex, Vince, and Graham. The gnocchi was solid, nothing fancy.

    Lunch at Comme a la Maison

    By 2 p.m., we returned to the pilgrims’ office, where a line of about 20 waited. The five or so volunteers inside were thorough, giving each pilgrim ample time and attention, so it took nearly an hour to get our credentials and first stamp. A Canadian volunteer spent an inordinate amount of time with Graham, Vince, and fellow Australian, Lara. When Lara mentioned to the volunteer she’d hired a tourism company to handle her lodging and transport, the man—apparently joking—said she was avoiding the Camino’s suffering and taking a “posh” route. Lara, already upset after being ripped off by a Bayonne taxi driver, was brought to tears.

    The pilgrim’s office where pilgrims obtain their credential and first stamp

    Once we had our credentials—and after lifting Lara’s spirits by calling her tormentor a douchebag—Alex and I hiked uphill to the Citadel of Mendiguren—a 17th-century fortress.

    Citadel of Mendiguren

    The grounds were in surprisingly good shape for its age, offering sweeping views of the valley below. It seemed to have served as a school recently but now appeared abandoned. We walked the grounds for about thirty minutes.

    A view of Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port from the fort.

    At 4 p.m., Alex and I walked back through town’s main corridor to our hostel across the river and checked in. After making our beds, we met Graham, Vince, and Tony for dinner at Café de la Paix. They each ordered different pizzas to share; I opted for a double cheeseburger and fries. With beers, the bill for five came to €100—surprisingly reasonable.

    Alex, Tony and I returned to our eight-person hostel room. I showered and climbed into my top bunk, ready for some much-needed sleep.

    Tomorrow, I’ll take a short five-mile day to Orisson via the Napoleon Route, while the others plan to push on 10-miles further to Roncesvalles.

  • Île-de-France

    Île-de-France

    Of course the trip started with a challenging trans-Atlantic flight. No screaming toddler, but the Air France seats were so hard that sleep was out of the question. To pass the time, I watched a few episodes of La Gaule d’Antoine, hosted by the irreverent and witty Antoine de Causes, a French TV icon known for his sharp humor and knack for uncovering cultural gems. The show, a playful exploration of France’s regional quirks, feels like a French take on Huell Howser’s California’s Gold. My French was just good enough to keep up, and halfway through an episode where de Caunes dove into the world of the ham-and-butter baguette sandwich known as a Parisian, I decided to make finding one my mission during my 14-hour layover.

    I landed at Paris Charles de Gaulle at 6 a.m. Clearing customs and catching a train to Notre Dame took two hours. I had a 9 a.m. ticket to enter the church, but on arrival, I found no reservations were needed—walk-ins faced no line. My last visit in 2011 left memories of a dark, dank interior, but the cathedral has been noticeably cleaned up! I did a quick loop inside and left.

    My favorite angle of Notre Dame. That tree needs to be cut back again.
    Morning mass inside Notre Dame

    My plan was to walk to the Eiffel Tower via the Seine and Champs-Élysées. Exhausted from the sleepless flight, I found a green metal lounge chair near Place de la Concorde, known for its Egyptian obelisk, and napped for two hours.

    When I woke, I was hungry. On the Champs-Élysées, I stopped at a coffee shop and grabbed two flaky, buttery croissants. With no interest in shopping, I passed through the commercial district, turned left at the Arc de Triomphe, and headed toward the Seine and Eiffel Tower.

    After crossing the river, I navigated through a checkpoint in the new security barrier around the tower. It was a hassle with my large backpack, but the lack of street vendors and scammers inside was a plus. I found a wooden park bench by a small pond and slept for another three hours.

    La Tour Eiffel

    Refreshed, I went to the food counter and ordered a jambon-beurre. Purists, I imagine, would argue it was not an authentic Parisian due to the addition of Emmental cheese, but it was delicious. Since I’m wearing Invisalign braces, my teeth were too sore to bite through the baguette, so I tore off bite-sized pieces to eat. It felt like the right way to enjoy it anyway.

    Jambon-Beurre aka Parisian (with cheese)

    At 5 p.m. I took the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower. I ordered a glass of champagne and spent an hour shooting aerial timelapses of the roads, river, and sidewalks below.

    The view from the top of the Eiffel Tower

    At 6:30 p.m., I departed the tower and took the metro to Paris Austerlitz to catch the night train to Bayonne.

    Intending to use the slow intercities train as a hotel, I booked a first-class sleeper car ticket months in advance. A handful of passengers in the car were also heading to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to start the Camino Frances. I brushed my teeth, plugged my battery bank into an outlet to charge, and drifted off to sleep.

    Midnight train to Gare de Bayonne

  • Paris Bound

    Grades are submitted, the office is empty, and my belongings are in storage. I am finally free.

    My 92-day trip to Europe began this morning when my neighbor Aleth drove me to Tampa International Airport. I went through TSA PreCheck and reached the gate with two hours before my connecting flight to Boston.

    When my boarding zone was called, the gate agent flagged me. My 92-day itinerary exceeded the Schengen Area’s 90-day visa-free limit, so I needed a waiver. I said I’d visit the UK during the trip, which pauses the Schengen clock. The agent wanted proof of a UK ticket, so I booked a $140 one-way flight from Paris to London, showed the confirmation, and got the waiver. In the jetway, I canceled the flight for a full refund. 🤷🏼‍♂️

    The hop to Boston was unpleasant. Screams from the toddler seated behind me cut through my noise-canceling earbuds the entire flight. I’m now in Boston with a four-hour layover before my evening flight to Paris, and I hope to God that kid isn’t on the next leg.

  • A Summer Abroad

    When entering the arena of academia in Florida, faculty are typically provided an opportunity to select either a nine or 12 month contract. Whichever option you select is permanent. Four years ago, with a penchant for vagabonding, I chose the former.

    Thus in early May, I will embark on yet another three-month adventure across Europe. I will fly to France, spend a day taking in the sights of Paris, and board the night train to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to begin walking the 800-kilometer Camino Francés — my third trek on this particular route.

    Provided I manage to escape illness and injury, I will then walk the 900-kilometer Camino del Norte before flying to the UK to traverse Hadrian’s Wall and the Coast to Coast walk. I’m scheduled to return home in August via Stockholm, and if time permits, I will hop a train to the northern reaches of Swedish Lapland to re-hike the Abisko to Nikkaluokta section of the Kungsleden.

    I’ve not been great in the past at documenting my travels beyond the first few weeks of a trip — but having recently tripped 40 and staring down the barrel of the second half of my life — I feel obligated to begin maintaining a detailed account of my travels.

    I bought this domain with plans to build a general resource for long-distance backpackers, but I’ll keep things short for now. Up next: The things I will carry.