“Know from whence you came. If you know whence you came, there are absolutely no limitations to where you can go.” –  James Baldwin

To know where you have been, is to know where you are going.  I believe there is knowledge in the past.  I often feel closer to the past, more so than the future, and compared to the present as well, probably to my detriment.

One of my favorite movies is Chocolat.  I like to watch it every Lent, mostly for the heavenly chocolate, which makes me want pan au chocolat, but also for the Pollyanna-like transformation in this little French village, where people suddenly learn to really live, and connect with one another.  I wonder if it is still possible in modern society, but it doesn’t make me want it less. Strangely though, after being the precipitating factor of this change, Vianne feels compelled to pick up and go when the North wind blows.  Like Vianne, I too, wish to follow the call of the wind.  I hear it like a Pan Piper, heralding a new season, promising change.

Being descended from nomadic people, Wanderlust is a disease many of us are born with.  I always liked going places; my fondest childhood memories are of summers spent in the woods at camp, and on long trips, nose pressed to the window, watching the passing landscape.  I was always keen to know, what’s next, and today is no exception.

With a tendency to burn the candle at both ends, I tend to take on too many projects, too many commitments, and on occasion, too many errant plants.  For a time I’ll revel in the busyness of it all, before it becomes overwhelming.  To go, and to be busy, especially when exploring, is to feel full for me.

In Fiddler on the Roof, Tevye said of money, ‘May the Lord smite me with it. And may I never recover.’  I feel this way about travel.  I want to see that the world is round, not just to know that it is.  I want to tread in the steps of pilgrims and know why they too, had Wanderlust.

As a child I wanted to read all the books in our small community library.  I considered the idea as I followed my Mother pushing a cart shelving books, or sitting beside her on a tall stool as she checked patrons out.  I would wait for my turn to apply the date stamp, with its satisfying thump. I figured I would start somewhere interesting, like in history, and work my way through the Dewey decimal system, and then pick back up with fiction.  This was a task I quickly realized was all too daunting, but the desire still persists today, to read, and to know about different people and places.

Much as I like to wander, the thing I find most interesting about traveling to different places is that each has a different personality, as if you met a new friend.  Some seem foreign, distant, and strange, and others like you’ve known them forever, even if you’ve only just met. Is it this sense that calls us, of knowing that a place is of us, or like us? 

Steinbeck wrote of Cannery Row that the street was ‘a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream.’  This certainly gives one an idea of noisy canneries looming overhead, casting dark shadows over narrow alleyways, churning out thousands of pounds of sardines.

This summer, I am reading James Michener’s Iberia, trying to understand his fascination with Spain, in the hopes it will shed some light on my own. 

The thing that strikes me about this book is how travel offers just a little slice, a glimpse of culture, not unlike a Tapas menu.  You can’t really know without dawdling, without dwelling in a place, but the taste alone can create a glow that lasts for weeks, months, or a lifetime.

Barcelona’s heat rises heavy from the stone sidewalks, suspended in space and light.  Its heat is present, a character of itself, much like Seville’s.   The city pulses with a silent energy in the heat; the pace is hurried, but not frenetic.  The sidewalks team with people, coming and going. Cars eek by narrow spaces, and construction crews repair centuries old facades and ancient streets.  Scooters weave in and among it all, coming to a halt just inches from your toes.

It is rather like an urgent tide, flowing in all directions at once. It speaks of life, not unlike Rome, but different somehow.  The people seem to live among the ever-present history, but not upon it.  It is part of them in a different way. 

Conversely, San Sebastian in a contradiction in merriment and strife, despite its atmospheric beauty.  At first glance, you see only the stunning cliffs and the sea.  Its history is less present, sometimes buried under ash of fire and war, and other times brushed aside to make room for new.  The city could easily turn your head, enchanting with its beauty, but its heart holds your attention.

In some senses, Basque people seem engaged in an enduring party, celebrating their way of life, and post-Franco revival of the regional Euskara language.   The culture is both melting pot and homogeneous, another contradiction.  It is a place I suspect requires immersion, rather than a brief visit, to really appreciate the nuance.

Similarly, are the pilgrims: they have journeyed for thousands of years, following the Way, one of several Camino routes across Europe to Santiago, where the remains of St. James reside.  You catch glimpses of them in the countryside, and in busy city streets.  They walk steadily, placing one pole point, and then the next, faces to the West.

I feel a traitor arriving in Santiago as a visitor, rather than a true pilgrim. Yet, Santiago de Compostela enchants with its mystery. 

History is present around every corner; a sense of old pervades, with the scent of damp rising from the cobble stones.  There is a spirituality about the place that transcends religion.  Regardless of God or creed, it asks you to consider yourself, and your place in the world.   Pilgrims come seeking many things, but for all, a peacefulness is available.

It is a city I felt compelled to see; I can’t say why for sure.  Perhaps I wanted to know what pilgrims are looking for, or to fill a void of my own, to answer questions that burn within me, to know and to understand.   Standing in the cathedral square, I think I understand.

We are all pilgrims at some point, searching for something: a kind of resolution, a way home.  Curiosity is a skill that cannot be taught.  A fire to know and understand is at the heart of the human experience.  This desire is fundamentally the same, all over the world, I believe.