None of it Means Anything

“None of it means anything if you don’t have someone to share it with,” he told me. “Come to Europe with me.”

It was the summer of my 22nd year. A senior in college, I was interning at a television news station in Chicago. Just barely old enough to buy a beer, this Iowa girl was writing the news scripts for the anchors and manning (womanning) the news desk overnight in the third largest city in America. From 10 pm until the morning crew arrived, I’d listen to the police scanners, read the Associated Press wire, and decide what stories were worth waking reporters up to cover and which could wait until sunrise. Barely three months before I’d never as much as rode the “El,” or elevated train system in the Windy City; now, I was in charge of deciding if it was newsworthy that someone got pushed onto the train tracks during the night.

After applying for the long-shot internship, getting it, moving solo to the big city, then getting progressively promoted all within a few short months, I felt like I’d arrived. I was a real deal newswoman with a career, and I was on my way.

So, when this man standing before me, a tall, beautiful, talented guitarist who played as part of a globally-known award-winning band (nope, I’m not telling you which one) asked me to leave my internship and come with him to tour Europe, I had a decision to make.

“You see the Tower of London. You pass cathedrals in Rome. You take a cable car over the Swiss Alps…but none of it means anything unless you have someone to share it with,” he persuaded. “Come with me. I have to leave and go on tour. I want you beside me.”

Oh, what a summer or fall or year or season that might have been. I can’t tell you now if it was because I was career driven, mastered by my Protestant work ethic, defined myself by my role, or not much of a risk taker, but I told him “no.” I, the person who’d never left North America before, had the chance to tour the world in an exciting way, yet I remember distinctly thinking to myself and telling my friends, “Barbara Walters is REALLY old, and at some point she is going to die, and someone is going to have to take her job.” And I meant it. I chose not to go to Europe with the band because I was waiting for Wawa’s demise and the vacancy that would result.

(We won’t even go down the road of discussing that at 21 I thought I was perhaps on the career path to replace Barbara Walters. That’s a whole different discussion on confidence and perhaps pride. Nor should we have to discuss the fact that she is still working in the news and I, a quarter of a century later, am not. The last thing we will definitely NOT discuss is who “REALLY old” is defined differently as years pass.)

It was that musician’s comments I thought of last night in my hotel in Melide, Spain, as I rested between stages of hiking the Camino de Santiago.

I was here last fall on a spiritual pilgrimage, walking and praying and processing changes in life, unleashing vision in myself and preparing for my next chapter. I’d achieved all the goals in life I’ve set thus far, and I was in need of new insight, new verve, and a new challenge. Not just physical in the kilometers I would cover, but internal as well. So, I hiked.

Along the way as September eased into October I met people, had conversations, learned a more globally and diverse worldview, and discovered within myself a strength and resilience deeper than I’d before seen. I was inspired and challenged, and knew it was an experience I’d treasure as long as my memory allowed me to know the most precious things in my life.

Life happened and needed me home, so 115 km from finishing my pilgrimage, I traded in a bounty of American Airlines miles, hopped a train to Madrid, and returned to the US just short of my goal.

So, that’s what put me in the hotel room last night, just about six months after leaving the Camino trail. Piggybacking on last week’s trip to visit family in England, while on the continent I decided to return to The Way of St. James and finish what I started.

The Way, the Camino, is quieter now on the tail end of winter than it was early fall. The hiking season really starts at Easter, and so the trail is both a bit colder and much more empty. People are often concerned to see me hiking alone, and, unlike before when the trail is more populated, give me curious looks or even stop to ask me, “Estas bien? Estas solo. Necessitas ayuda?” or “Is everything okay? Why are you alone? Do you need help?”

I’ve walked through hills and mountains and farms and valleys and cities, letting Michael Bublé sing to me as I hike. I’ve enjoyed watching the wind blow through the trees. I’ve crossed Roman bridges and babbling rivers and through bustling city streets. I’ve eaten octopus and drank coffee and sat on city sidewalks watching the symphony of life while resting my splinted shins and aching feet. And yet, last night, waiting to fall asleep in my private room (a change and a splurge from last fall), I thought of the musician’s words and how the beauties of life are enriched and mean more when you have someone to share them with.

Then, last night I wondered if that is how Anthony Bourdain felt in his life traveling the world, having the whole globe and travel and cuisine by a string, and yet doing it hemispheres apart from the people he loved.

I don’t know. But I know sharing life is a beautiful thing and whether it’s a waterfall in Spain, an ocean off of Africa, or a lake in Missouri, the waters of life are sweeter and more beautiful when they are forded in community.

We are made for relationship, created for connection. As I type I watch families walk through the bustling square before me, the Sunday morning city coming awake with shoppers, worshippers and life, the Virgin Mother surrounded by people selling meat, cheese, local honey, and tube socks for 1€ per pair. What a treasure and privilege to be here, to have this moment, and to share the moment with the Spirit who drew me here. And, in a week or so, what a joy to get to return to my dear small town and share life with the people I love.