I don’t think I’ve brought enough diapers or sleepers in our carry-on. We have a 24-hour journey ahead of us that involves planes, trams, trains and cars. Was this explosive start to the trip a foreshadow of what was to come?

Preparing for the Trip

I was really anxious about flying with Phoenix. In his first months of life, we had barely left the house, and when we had, we had found it more complicated than expected. The mass of stuff we had to lug around on outing, the endless pit-stops for nursing and diaper changes, the car-seat and car-ride-related meltdowns… It was just easier to stay home.

Suffice to say, then, that Bruno and I hadn’t had much practice in the travel-with-baby department.

To counter this, we decided to prepare as best we could for the journey. We imagined the most complicated part – getting from the airport to the train station and into the train with baby and luggage. So, even though we were allowed an extra suitcase and carry-on for Phoenix, we opted to bring only what our four hands could carry. That meant two backpacks as carry-on luggage, two rolling suitcases , and a stroller.

Our luggage for the trip.

At least half our luggage was for Phoenix (think 30 reusable cloth diapers!), and our carry-ons were loaded with four extra sleepers (the easiest clothing to put on in a pinch), toys, books, swaddle blankets, two baby carriers, and 12 disposable diapers for the flight. I was very happy Phoenix is a breastfed baby, as we didn’t need to calculate the amount of formula we’d need for the journey – it was already enough trouble to calculate the amount of diapers and clothing changes (and, as the scenario above illustrates, I underestimated in both cases).

Phoenix had never been in a stroller, and he is the type of baby who needs a bit of time to warm up to something new, we knew we didn’t want his first time in the stroller to be at the airport. When we received it, we wheeled him around my parents’ home, and took him out as soon as he fussed. The next day, we went for a walk outside (I ended up holding him for about half that walk). By the time we left for the airport a few days later, Phoenix had been on 5 walks, had fallen asleep in the stroller once, and looked happy and comfortable inside. Score!

Trying out Phoenix’ new stroller before our trip.

He fell asleep! For Phoenix, that’s big – that means he likes his stroller!

From Canada to France at 3 Months Old

The theme of this section of the trip was boob. Phoenix was so overwhelmed by the noise on the flights and the commotion at the Montreal Airport that, for the entire 7-hour overseas flight, he clung to my breast. The few times I tried passing Phoenix to Bruno so I could rest more comfortably (it was a red-eye) or go to the bathroom, Phoenix cried. We realized he simply needed my reassurance and comfort. I wasn’t comfortable (!) but I was very grateful, again, to be a nursing mama. And at least changing pressure during take off and landing were non-issues for Phoenix!

Near the end of the flight, we were able to place Phoenix in his swaddles on my seat, and Bruno and I took turns walking up and down the aisle while the other sat. We had tried to reserve the bulkhead seats so we could access one of two baby bassinets this flight offered, but another passenger had paid extra to reserve those roomier seats. I was appalled that Air Canada would sell those seats to the highest bidder rather than providing them to parents of infants.

Phoenix, asleep on the airplane.

Phoenix’ first flight, at exactly 3 months old.

Near the end of the flight I gave Phoenix my seat. Too bad we didn’t have the baby bassinet.

From Lyon, we picked up our luggage and took a tram to the train station, where we had to wait a few hours for our train. The train station was even more chaotic than the Montreal airport. There was only one small [paying] bathroom area with no change tables, and there was hardly any seating space to rest or nurse. Luckily, we found a service called S.O.S. Voyageurs run by a few old ladies – they had a change table and allowed us to spend a couple hours in their tiny lounge until our train arrived. Thank goodness, too, because Phoenix had three back-to-back giant poops!

Though getting all our luggage onto the train was a challenge, the train ride was probably the easiest portion of the journey. On some segments, we had an entire cabin to ourselves (the train service in France is on partial strike so the trains were empty!) allowing us to spread out, play, use the stroller, and do diaper-changes on location. On the longest train ride, Phoenix was once again glued to my breast, where he slept and ate quietly almost the entire journey.

Phoenix on his first train.

Passed out a few minutes later.

Overall, the journey had been easier (though still stressful and complicated) than I’d imagined, mainly because Phoenix had been so overwhelmed that he was fairly easy to manage. During the times he wasn’t – when we were on the move in airports and train stations – we were very grateful to have our baby carrier. Phoenix finds refuge and sleep more easily when in his orange wrap than anywhere else, so the baby carrier provided a practical, hands-free reset for him while we dealt with luggage and transit. Our stroller, while useful at times, was more often than not a backpack carrier than anything.

The Return Journey, with a Four-Month Old

You know how they say that, with a baby, as soon as you’ve figured things out, they change? Well, that was the theme of our return journey.

Since Phoenix had been so overwhelmed by plane and travel travel a few weeks earlier, we expected him to, once again, cling to my breast and hover between sleeping and nursing the entire trip.

He did the complete opposite.

First, we took a train north, from Montpellier to Lyon. Phoenix was wide awake and wanting a lot of attention. He refused to nurse and refused to sleep. But he also didn’t want to stay put in our arms or seat. Every few minutes we had to change his position and activity. Talk about a high-maintenance baby!

This is what Phoenix wide awake looks like. Scary!

At least we had first class seats on the train. Lots of space to play with our high-maintenance boy.

At the Lyon airport, Phoenix was also wide awake, and looking less traumatized than in Montreal a month earlier. I’m guilty of wishing that he’d become overwhelmed by the hubbub so that he’d nestle himself into the safety of my breast for the return flight. I’d learned on the train ride that, even though I’m less comfortable with a baby stuck onto me for an entire journey, it’s a lot less work!

My wish was not granted. Phoenix was just as high-maintenance on the plane as he’d been on the train – only this time, the journey was much longer! Thankfully we had managed to secure the bulkhead seats, along with the baby bassinet, for the Lyon-Montreal flight, so I was able to get him down for two little naps (although during turbulence I had to pull him out and hold him). And we also luckily had an empty middle seat which we used to change Phoenix’ position and activity every couple of minutes. So, we were more comfortable and better equipped for this flight.

But I don’t know if it was because Phoenix was older, it was daytime, or if, after all the trains and planes, he was no longer traumatized by them, but he didn’t need refuge on my breast. In fact, he didn’t want to nurse at all, even during takeoff and landing, so I ended up sticking my finger in his mouth so he would suck on something to help him equalize.

Keeping Phoenix occupied on the plane ride home.

Putting Phoenix down for a nap in the plane’s baby bassinet.

Good thing no one was sat in the middle seat, because we sure did take up a lot of space!

He also had several more explosive poops, dirtying three sleepers almost back-to-back (almost always during turbulence or landing, when we couldn’t go change him right away!). Not to gross you out or anything, but during our journey a month earlier, Phoenix had had 8 poops in that 24-hour period, and this time he’d had 4 on a 7-hour flight. Either it’s a coincidence that he had a tummy ache each time (maybe stress-related?) or something about the altitude and air pressure made him a pooping machine!

A Note About Jet Lag

In our experience, Phoenix suffered more from jet lag on the return trip, or the westbound trip. Perhaps it was just the timing of our flights, but by the time we arrived at Bruno’s brother’s place in France around 6pm the following day, Phoenix was so exhausted that he passed out for the night almost immediately. This meant that he acclimatized to the local time fairly quickly. Maybe he was a bit more wakeful at night for a week or so, but he definitely didn’t go through any day and night confusion.

On the way home, we arrived around 5pm local time, and by the time we got Phoenix to bed for the night it was almost midnight in France. Contrary to what some people might think, when a baby goes to sleep late, they don’t sleep in the next morning. Because Phoenix’ internal clock was on France time, he wanted to wake up in the morning… on France time. It didn’t help that we are on the longest days of the year and that our bedroom here doesn’t get dark. It took several days to get Phoenix to sleep in until 6:30am, and as I write these words a week after our return, his nights are wonky.

What We’ve Learned about Travel with a Baby

Jet lag is real. And when your baby has jet lag, yours takes forever to go away.

Pack more diapers and sleepers than you imagine you could ever need. Your baby might have explosive-poop-in-air syndrome, too, and that way you’ll avoid having to blow dry baby clothes in the airport bathroom!

Changing Phoenix’ diaper on the airplane.

That being said, pack as lightly as possible. Unless you are going straight from a car to a plane and to a car. Which I’d recommend.

Strollers are very useful for travel. Baby carriers are even better. Have both.

Babies are heavy. And needy. Four arms are barely enough for one baby.

Airports and train stations are not made for babies. It’s hard to find a quiet, discrete place to nurse, and almost impossible to find a change table. So get comfortable with having your boobs and your baby’s poopy private parts out in the open!

Nursing Phoenix at the departure gate.

Thank God for that baby wrap!!!

Finding an actual changing table is not easy!

If your baby is a good night sleeper but a bad napper, try to book red eye flights. You’ll have more luck keeping baby asleep. A sleeping baby is a low-maintenance baby. An angel, really. God, I love a sleeping baby.

So, Would We Fly With a Baby Again?

The short answer is, of course. We have no choice. We live away from our families, so air travel, train travel, and overseas travel will be a yearly part of our lives.

But, if we didn’t have to travel to see our families? Like, if we lived in the same cities and only needed to take trains and planes for fun? Hell, no!

Maybe that’s jet-lagged Brittany talking. But, honestly, it was exhausting (as if overseas travel isn’t exhausting enough). Phoenix was overwhelmed, I felt terrible for putting him through the trip, and it took us long enough to recover that a fun short holiday would have been marred by jet lag.

The long answer is this: Train travel isn’t so bad. The seats are larger and at least you can walk around the aisles anytime you want. Short flights are fine, too. A fussy, high-maintenance baby isn’t the end of the world for a couple hours. If the trip has to be long, break it up into smaller segments and have an excuse to transit in a new place. If god-forbid, the flight needs to be long, make it a north-south trip so jet lag isn’t a factor. And if, like us, your family lives in a faraway time zone, convince them to fly to you instead!

Mama’s yawning. This is gonna be a looooooong trip.

I like my baby bassinet!

This is Part II of our road trip down Route 66.  To check out Part I – which includes our preparation, first impressions, and experiences in Illinois, Missouri, Kansas, and Oklahoma – click here.

We’d been on Route 66 for almost a week now, and the route’s quintessential motels, cafés, and neon signs were starting to get old.  Thankfully, Oklahoma offered us a few new quirky sites along its chunk of Route 66.  We visited a restored giant round barn, a massive totem pole, a giant modern statue of a pop bottle (to advertise Pop’s Soda Ranch, a shop selling, well, pop – 700 types!), and an old swimming pool with a huge plaster whale.

The old round red barn in Arcadia, OK.

The world’s largest concrete totem pole.

The giant whale swimming hole.

The giant rocking chair we’d seen earlier on Route 66 – the second largest in the world.

For some strange reason, giant objects are a frequent theme along Route 66.  So are antiques, bridges, vintage cars, farms, trading posts and churches.  Route 66 is much more than neon signs!

There are also darker themes associated with Route 66, unfortunately, and one of them is specifically associated with Oklahoma.  It is the Dust Bowl.  In the 1930s, several states in the southern U.S. were met with a double-whammy of tough times – not only was in the Great Depression, but severe drought and unsustainable agricultural practices devastated crops.  Families – surrounded by dust – couldn’t survive, and so most headed west, to California, where they’d heard the soil was rich and moist.  These “Okies” – for most of the migrants came from Oklahoma – traveled to California via none other than Route 66.

An even darker theme in the history of Route 66 is the story of the Negro Motorist Green Book.  The decades in which Route 66 was in use were also the decades when it was still difficult – even dangerous – for African Americans to travel.  Even once the U.S. was officially desegregated and Blacks technically had the same rights as Whites – including the ability to travel interstate – the reality along Route 66 was a little slow to follow suit.  Many cafés and motels refused to serve Black clients, and there were even “sundown towns,” entire towns that were prohibited to Blacks after nightfall.  Edmond, Oklahoma, adjacent to the state capital, was one such town (an old postcards of the town reads, A good place to live; 6,000 live citizens, no negroes), but there were dozens others along the route.

The Negro Motorist Green Book was like a Route 66 Lonely Planet for African Americans.  It detailed cafés, motels, service stations, and other businesses that would accept their patronage.  While White American families were enjoying happy family road trips down the Road of Dreams, Blacks were just trying to make it in once piece to their final destination.  I even read that businesses along the route often had names with triple K’s – like Kosy Kottage Kamp and Klean Kountry Kottages – that were code for the Ku Klux Klan.

I saw a few signs along Route 66 with double-K names, but nothing with triple-Ks. Is this hamburger shop a remnant of the KKK? Who knows…

Route 66 might bring nostalgia into the hearts of many Americans, but I’m guessing it doesn’t bring quite the same sentiments to older African Americans.  Diving through Edmond reminded me of my privilege in being able to travel problem-free down the old Mother Road.

Kicks in the Deep South in Texas

I was again reminded of my privilege at Shamrock, our first stop in Texas, and home of a sizeable Irish population.  The lady working at the U-Drop Inn gave us such a warm welcome, showing us her renovated diner – Bruno got excited about the booth where Elvis Presley had once sat – and giving us tons of local information.  She was so interested in our lives that she even took a photo of Totoyaya in front of the restored Tower Service station – which features in a scene in Cars.  Southern hospitality was in full swing here in Shamrock.

Welcome to Texas! We’ll be driving through the panhandle, the square section just left of my arm.

Shamrock, Texas’ Irishtown, and its infamous U-Drop-Inn.

And now, Totoyaya in front of the real U-Drop-Inn.

Texas marked the beginning of the wild, wild west.  We saw our first neon cactus signs, cowboy-themed motels, and actual tumbleweeds blowing past the flat, windy fields.  We drove on several long, straight dirt stretches past ranches and cotton fields and wind turbines.  We almost hit the birds that kept flying up from their nests in the tall grasses on the edge of the road.  We got caught in a traffic jam with cows.

The “Western Motel”. Must be in the wild west!

The Cactus Inn.

The long, flat, dusty Route 66 past cotton fields and cows.

What a traffic jam in Texas looks like! :)

Indeed, there are more cows in the northern Panhandle of Texas than people.  Amarillo, the region’s capital, is also the world’s capital of beef production.  There are 130 feedlots in the surrounding area producing 2.5 million heads of cattle a year.  You can smell the cattle everywhere, even though you can’t always see them.  Locals declare, “Smells like money!” but I say it smells like gluttony.

An infamous historical marker along Route 66 is Amarillo’s Big Texan Steak Ranch.  Here, you are encouraged to try their 72oz. steak-eating contest.  If you can eat that giant steak (plus four side dishes of shrimp cocktail, baked potato, salad, bread and butter) in one hour or less, the meal is free.  Several people try this feat every day, and about 1 out of 6 succeeds.  Each “champion” is commemorated on the Wall of Fame inside the bar, which also proudly displays articles of the beef industry’s attack on Oprah and other lobbying successes.

Molly Shuyler, the woman who ate three 72oz. steaks in twenty minutes last year, holds a place of special honour on the restaurant’s Wall of Fame.  If you can stomach it, you can watch the video of this “feat” here.

Needless to say, I didn’t give the Big Texan Steak Ranch the honour of my patronage.

The infamous – and gluttonous – Big Texan Steak Ranch.

I’m pretending to have fun here, but I’m actually horrified. Does anyone else feel disgusted by this steak challenge??

The 72oz. steak challenge – this is what you must eat to get the meal for free. The plate holding the steak is not a mini plate…

Thankfully, a little further on was a more pleasant historical marker – the equally infamous Cadillac Ranch.  Ten old Cadillacs are half-buried, face-down, in the dirt on a flat field near Route 66.  This public art installation is participatory, and thus ever-changing.  If you bring your own cans of spray paint, you can paint a few words or symbols on the vehicles – just know that by the next day, they will most certainly have been painted over.  Bruno was super-excited to visit this site, but he contented himself with photographing the art exhibit while I took in the thick caked-on layers of paint from close-up.

Near the end of Texas, we reached the official Midpoint of Route 66.  We were exactly 1,139 from both Chicago and Los Angeles.  It wasn’t our own personal midpoint of Route 66, however.  We were nearing the end of our road trip.

Approaching the equally infamous Cadillac Ranch.

Ten old Cadillacs buried, nose-first, into the earth as a participatory and ever-changing art installation.

NOT caught in the act – spraypainting these vehicles is allowed, and encouraged. Just don’t expect your mark to be there the next morning.

The official midpoint of Route 66 – 1,139 miles to Chicago and LA. Which way should we go?

Final Few Kicks in New Mexico and Arizona

By now, Route 66 was more highway driving than anything else.  Towns were farther between, which meant that interesting sites were fewer.

Instead, it was the interesting landscapes that took over our attention.  Red mesas, or tabletop mountains, began popping up along the horizon.  Short cacti started to appear.  Antelope grazed along the roadside.

The stunning red mesas of New Mexico.

The Southwest of the U.S. was exactly what I’d pictured in my mind, and I was thrilled to finally be here.  But, man, was it cold!  We were on a high plateau, and our first night in New Mexico was our coldest night yet (-3 degrees celcius!).  We could see snow in the distant northern mountains, so we decided not to take the older route through Santa Fe.  The straight route through Albuquerque is the less interesting of the two, as it involves a lot of highway driving, but Albuquerque itself seemed like a worthy place to visit.  The terracotta architecture was charming and there was tons of evidence of Mexican and Native American culture.  Taquerias, Spanish-speaking radio stations, Indian trading posts added an enticing multicultural flair to the city.

Native-American themed trading posts and gift shops.

Mexican food. Not sure if I’d eat here, though…

I’d eat at this New Mexican restaurant though, since it’s named after us and all..!

Route 66 climbed up to its supposed highest point, the Continental Divide.  This mountain range distinguishes the watersheds that drain into the Pacific Ocean from those than drain into the Gulf of Mexico.  I couldn’t help but think of my friend Justin, whose Grammy-award-winning children’s band, the Okeedokee Brothers, had just traveled the Continental Divide on horseback for a month to write their third adventure album, Saddle Up (which has also just been nominated for a Grammy).

And then we were in Arizona, our final destination.  Our Route 66 road trip was coming to an end.  And, honestly, I was ok with that.  Following the historical Route 66 had been a fun and enlightening means of getting south, but Arizona had more interesting things to offer us than the old Mother Road.  It had warm southern cities and gorgeous national parks, and these lures won out.  As Route 66 cut through Petrified Forest National Park, we turned right, got off the old Main Street of America, and entered my first U.S. National Park (which is a story for a later time).

The Continental Divide!

The division of North America’s watersheds. Cool!

An old car along Route 66 in Petrified Forest National Park. It’s the last Route 66-themed artefact we’ll encounter, as we’re getting off the road here.

Final Thoughts on the Kicks of Route 66

Driving down the old Highway of America had never been on my bucket list.  Americana isn’t particularly my thing.  But if you get into the spirit of kitsch, of being unabashedly a tourist, and of buying into the stereotypes and symbols, Route 66 offers up some rewards.

For example, it’s amazing to see the changing landscapes and cultures as you drive south and west.  Each state had something new to offer, and I happily acknowledged that there is incredible geographical and cultural variety within the United States.  (This bodes well for our extended visit in the U.S., then, doesn’t it?)

Also, it’s fascinating to learn about American history through the lens of Route 66.  The route really does tell the story of the last hundred years – of economic development, war, famine, race issues, transportation and technology – fabulously well.  I hadn’t expected this.

This museum helped me understand the history of America through the lens of Route 66.

The murals all along Route 66 paint important historical events that have occurred in the towns along the route.

Lastly, by placing such things as neon signs, motels, service stations, old cars, and diners on pedestals, I was able to see these things, not as mundane (for a North American, this is what they are), but as cultural artefacts.  This allowed me to view a culture so closely-related to my own from an anthropological perspective, which was enlightening.

Ultimately, I do not think it is necessary to drive the entirety of Route 66, and there is no part of me that wishes to complete the road trip all the way to Los Angeles.  I’ve gotten all I need to get from Route 66.

But I am really happy that our Route 66 road trip kicked off our American tour.  It was a great way to frame American culture and history, and a fantastic way to connect us to a long history of tourists getting their kicks on Route 66.

The Sinclair service station is a great example of a typical roadside attraction along Route 66.

I will never look at neon signs the same way again!

And I have a strange desire to stay at a motel all of a sudden…

We’re not the only ones road-trippin’ down Route 66.

***

Tips for those planning their own Route 66 road trip:

1. When planning your Route 66 road trip, take a passenger along! It’s so difficult to navigate Route 66 alone (even with a good GPS), so having a passenger who’s a good map-reader makes the trip a lot less stressful.

2. We definitely recommend getting the EZ Guide for Travelers to help navigate the route. It was an absolute lifesaver for us, not only in order to point out interesting sites along the way, but to help us from getting lost!  Plus, the author is so passionate about Route 66 (even pointing out original pieces of cement and other random things) that his enthusiasm becomes infectious.

3. We recommend driving the route from East to West. It adds to the sense of adventure and fun if you’re driving in the same direction that most families and tourists have driven it – toward the sun, warmth, and sea of California!

4. When Route 66 divides into 2 or 3 sections, we recommend always taking the oldest section available. It will likely be further from the highway and bring you into more towns.

Don’t worry, the route will never be this bad.

But it might take you down old brick roads!

5. Get out to walk often. It’s so easy to begin a bad habit of staying in the car and snapping photos of sites while driving by (this is especially true once the initial enthusiasm wears off because there are just so many site to see that you begin to feel you’re getting out of the car every 5 minutes!).  Our most memorable moments always happened when we left the lazy comfort of our vehicle.

6. I think driving Route 66 in an RV is a bit of a shame (even though this is what we did). You miss out on the essence of the road trip – the diners, cafés and motels!  Of course, sleeping in your RV is more practical and cheaper, so a good compromise in this case would be to dine out.

We didn’t eat out much, but we did make an effort to try some of the typical foods and beverages along the way.

7. If doing the trip from east to west, plan to stop driving an hour or more before sunset. The last 90 minutes of daylight, the sun is directly in front of you, and it’s truly blinding.  Not at all comfortable or pleasant.

8. If you’re tight on time, we’d recommend doing less of the route but taking the time to do it right. Unless you need to get south for other reasons (like us), we’d recommend taking the time to savour the people, food, culture, and museums.  My favourite section – and therefore the one I’d recommend for those not doing the whole thing – was Illinois.  The route is well-marked and has great interpretive signs. There are loads of cute towns, well-preserved sites, and typically charming farmland scenery.  Two notable cities bookend the trip (Chicago and St. Louis), there’s a funky bridge to visit (the Chain of Rocks Bridge), and you can get far away from the highway by taking older versions of the route.  Basically the Illinois section of Route 66 contains all essential elements of Route 66 in an easy and doable mini-trip.

In Illinois there are excellent interpretive signs of historical markers along Route 66.

We road tripped down Route 66!

And so did Totoyaya! :)

We crossed the US border in Detroit and made our way toward Chicago along the interstate highways (something we rarely do) to make good time.  Then, we opted to take a bit of a touristy road trip south, following Route 66 from Joliet, Illinois (almost the starting point) all the way to Arizona.  I’m looking forward to sharing our experiences along this infamous all-American Route very soon on the blog so do look out for that in the next week or so.

Goodbye Canada and the cold – we’re heading south for the winter!

About to cross the bridge into the US at the Windsor/Detroit border.

After parking at this truck stop/travel center for the night , we’ll start our Route 66 road trip the next morning!

We opted not to take Route 66 to its final point in Los Angeles because we got side-tracked by the Petrified Forest National Park and the beckoning warm weather of Arizona’s southern cities.  We spent a bit of time in Tucson, visiting the nearby Saguaro National Park, and ended our month in Phoenix.  These two national parks were my first two in the United States, so I am looking forward to sharing my impressions and photos of these visits later in the month.

As for our time in Tucson and Phoenix, we’re here beginning our U.S. search for a new camper van.  I expect that much of December will be taken up with this task.

This Month’s Statistics

Flights Taken: 3 (Montpellier to Paris; Paris to New York; and Newark to Toronto – it was a very long day!)

Countries Visited: Also 3 (France, Canada, and the US).  As far as the U.S. goes, we stepped foot in 9 states (4 of which were new to me), thanks to our Route 66 road trip!

Kilometers Driven: A whopping 4,822!  WOW, this is by far the most kilometers Bruno and I have ever driven in a month, and probably the most kilometers Bruno has ever done in a single month in all his 18 years of overland travel.  Interestingly, all but 600 of these kilometers took place during the 15-day period between our departure from Toronto and our decision to leave Route 66 at Petrified Forest National Park.

Our three weeks of overland travel started in Toronto and ended in Phoenix. That’s A LOT of kilometers!

Nights in Campsites: 10

Overnights in Parking Lots: 13.  Read below for the details.

This Month’s Camping Situation

Finding overnight accommodation this month was a fairly big challenge.  Campsites were even more expensive than in Canada, which I’d already complained was the most expensive country for camping I’d ever visited.  In the U.S, most campsites (also called RV Parks) are between $30-50USD per night!!  Not only that, but these parks are composed almost entirely of retirees in gigantic RVs and motorhomes, which isn’t our personal camping style.  This is especially true in Arizona, where at least half the RV Parks are for 55+ only.

A few times we found cheaper campsites – like the run-down trailer park in Oklahoma, the communal campsite a couple nights later, and the state park campsite in Arizona – but a few times we paid $30 to camp for a night because we desperately needed a shower!

The other thirteen nights (though, somehow, it feels like more), Bruno and I sampled the gamut of spots that offer free overnight RV parking in the U.S.  We tried rest stops along the interstate, Walmart parking lots, gas station truck stops (now called “travel centers”), and casinos.  Of all these places, I preferred the Walmarts.  We had access to 24-hour toilets, Wi-Fi, and a grocery store if we needed anything.  It was also the quietest option because we were always able to find a back corner in the parking lot. More than all that, though, is that it was the most wholesome-feeling option.  The rest stops and gas stations are full of male truck drivers, so I’m not very comfortable there, and at the two casinos we tried, we had to go through a large smoky room full of gamblers to reach the toilets.

Parked for the night at a casino that offers free parking to RVs, with hookups!

With each of the free overnight parking options, though, I was pushed to levels of discomfort I have not yet known in my overlander life.  You can’t bring out your camping chairs or tables, so we were limited to very small living quarters for 15-hour periods (which, to be fair, was also true at many of the campsites because of the freezing weather at times); you can’t cook outside, so we ate a lot of ready-made meals this month (which is not my cup of tea); and most importantly, there were no showers.  I often went several days without showering, and once I didn’t take a proper shower for six entire days – a lifetime first!

If I wasn’t totally convinced that Bruno and I need a larger camper van with a toilet, shower, a larger water capacity, and a grey water tank, I sure am now!

Notable Camping Spots

We didn’t do any bush camping this month, mostly because we didn’t really have time to get off the beaten path.  We did, however, find one superb campsite and another pretty decent one that I can recommend.

1) Gilbert Ray Campsite in Tucson Mountain Park.  GPS 32.223229, -111.144689.  This place is in a breathtaking setting, surrounded by the flora and fauna of the Sonoran Desert.  It’s just outside the entrance to Saguara National Park West and there are several hiking trails within walking distance of the campsite.  It’s also very affordable – $10/night for a tent (we put a tent down even though we slept in the car), and $20/night for an RV (with electricity).  There are restrooms and running water, but no showers (the only real downfall).

2) Communal RV Park on Lake Reno, Oklahoma.  GPS 35.518753153948, -97.986223697662.  We found this place by accident, and happily spent a day by the lake surrounded by Canada geese.  The site is $5 for a tent and $15 for RVs (with full hook-ups), and there is a shower/toilet block.  Besides the noise of the nearby highway, this was a pretty darn good spot.

Lake Reno, OK, with the Canada geese making me feel at home.

The best campsite of the month – Gilbert Ray campsite in the Tucson Mountain Park in the Sonoran Desert.

Also, a note for RV people (and those that don’t need toilets or showers) – all through Oklahoma and Texas we came upon free RV Parks along the side of the main road in little towns.  They are totally free and they usually come with full hook-ups, too.  They are generally right along the road, there isn’t security, they don’t have toilets, and they are occasionally squatted by long-term trailers, but they are still a great option.  We only stayed at one of them, though, because it was right beside a gas station for our toilet needs.

High and Low Points This Month

The low point this month was definitely the results of the U.S. election, especially because it occurred on the first day of our long-term travels within the U.S.  The election briefly caused me to reconsider our travel plans, and it has triggered many difficult emotional and intellectual moments as I navigate the people and places I encounter.  I guess that’s part of travel and personal growth.

The highlight this month was getting to visit my first American National Parks.  My brother and sister-in-law gifted Bruno and me a one-year America the Beautiful National Parks pass, and we are so stoked to spend as much time in as many national parks as possible during our U.S. travels.

Another highlight was getting to celebrate my 3rd wedding anniversary with Bruno a few days ago.  Since we were in Tucson, we opted for a totally American celebration – going to the movies and then out to dinner at a local  Sonoran/Mexican restaurant!

Petrified Forest National Forest – my first U.S. National Park!

Celebrating our 3rd wedding anniversary in style at a local Sonoran/Mexican restaurant in Tucson.

What December Will Hold

Our sole goal in December is to find a new vehicle and begin converting it into a new camper van.  I’m not sure whether we will find the vehicle in Arizona or California, but I expect we will spend Christmas and the New Year in the Pacific Southwest of the country.  Stay tuned on the blog to see what vehicle we purchase and to watch the conversion process!

His reply: Alaska.

It appears Bruno has been planning his return to North America for at least four years (truthfully much longer).  It’s been a long time coming, which is why August 10^th was such a monumental day for Bruno and me.  Totoyaya, our beloved homemade camper van, arrived in North America!

Our vehicle’s arrival onto any new continent is special (over the years I have personally had the opportunity to experience an arrival in Asia and Europe, though Bruno has also experienced its arrival into Africa, North America, and South America), but our arrival to North America holds a particularly special place in my heart – it’s my home continent!

I’ve spent the last decade (plus) exploring lands far and wide, but I’ve spent so little time exploring my own (unless we count all those childhood moves).  There’s an incredible satisfaction in knowing that I’m finally going to delve deeper into the landscapes, culture, and history of my own special region of the world.  It feels like a return to my roots, like coming full circle after a decade of wanderlust.

This month, Totoyaya will be peacefully parked in the driveway of my parents’ home along New Brunswick’s Atlantic Coast while we spend time with family and friends.  We’ll hit the road sometime in September.  In the meantime, I thought it would be interesting – and potentially helpful – for me to share our experience with shipping our vehicle from Europe to North America.

Totoyaya, our beloved camper van, is parked at my parents’ home in Canada! CRAZY!!

We can even stare at her from the window of our bedroom!

From one side of the Atlantic Ocean to the other! :)

Step 1: Choosing the Shipping Method

There are two primary ways to get a vehicle across the Atlantic Ocean – putting it in a container, or doing a roll-on roll-off (RORO) ferry.  I talked more about our experiences with these options here, but basically, ferries are generally the option we prefer.  They involve less paperwork and are faster to organize.  The drawback is that the vehicle is less secure, as you have to hand over your keys.  Cost differences depend on size of vehicle and time available to plan the journey.

There isn’t always a RORO available, but the journey between Europe and North America is so popular now that there are several RORO options.  We opted to go with Seabridge because they are one of the most popular and reliable options, and Bruno’s priority for this journey was simplicity.

Step 2: Choosing the Route

We thought we would ship our vehicle from Hamburg, Germany, but Seabridge recommended that we ship from Antwerp, Belgium, instead.  The ferry ride would be several days shorter (four, I think) and the services provided would be in French and English, rather than German only.

Seabridge offers several ports of arrival in North America, but for us, the option was easy.  Halifax is only three hours away from my family home, so Bruno and I could stay there while we waited for Totoyaya to arrive.  This was a great way to bide our time, as there were 2.5 weeks between the date we handed over the keys in Antwerp and the day we could collect our vehicle in Halifax.

Apparently Canadian customs are pickier than the Americans, but the advantage of arriving in Canada is that we weren’t given the one-year time-limit on our foreign vehicle, which is what happens when you arrive in the US.

The possible ferry routes with Seabridge.

Step 3: Making the Reservation

You can make a reservation up to six months in advance, but since we were departing Europe at a less busy time (the busiest times are at the beginning and end of summer), we reserved online a few weeks before our departure.  You need to know the dimensions of your vehicle, as the cost is factored at 47 euros per meter cubed.

When you reserve, you are also given the option of purchasing car insurance with Seabridge.  Even though we weren’t asked to provide proof of our insurance, if we ever get stopped by police or have an accident, it’s the first thing we would be asked for.  We would never drive in North America without vehicle insurance, and though we declined Seabridge’s insurance offer, we found it difficult to find affordable insurance for a European vehicle in North America.  Finally, we went with Progressive.

We did opt for trip insurance on the vehicle with Seabridge, as it was only about 150 euros for the journey.

Step 4: Preparing the Vehicle

Unfortunately, I wasn’t around for most of the vehicle prep (I was spending some family time in Canada before Bruno joined me), so my poor hubby had to do most of this work on his own.  I know this involved cleaning the interior of the vehicle thoroughly (a requirement for the Canadians), removing the water jugs and bicycles from the back exterior of the vehicle, emptying our personal items from the cabin, and high-pressure washing the exterior of the vehicle.

There is a customs inspection upon arrival, and the cost of that inspection is included in the shipping quotation.  However, if the customs inspector determines the vehicle isn’t clean enough, there will be an additional cost to clean and re-inspect the vehicle.

Bruno left one bicycle in France and put the other one inside our vehicle, hiding it with a piece of fabric under the table. Apparently things need to be put away like this inside the vehicle for the ferry ride as well as customs.

Step 5: Loading the Vehicle at the Port of Departure

Vehicles bound on North American ferries with Seabridge from Antwerp must be in the port by noon every Monday (during summer, that is; winter may have less departures).  Bruno was impressed at how simple the process was.  He simply parked at the port, entered the building of the agency, got an entry pass into the port, brought the vehicle to be weighed (ours comes in at 3100kg!), handed his reservations documents to the agent, was told where to park, handed over the keys, and was given a receipt of the delivery.  In and out in under an hour.

Seabridge then provided us with a document package of how the pickup in Halifax would happen, and it included maps, campsites, phone numbers and addresses of the offices we’d need to visit.  The package was well-detailed and we felt confident and clear about the next step in the process.

Driving our camper van into the Antwerp port.

The paperwork that goes along with the shipping process. Easy-peasy.

Our vehicle waiting in the port to be loaded onto the ferry. Bruno has already handed over the keys at this point.

Step 6: Picking up Vehicle at Port of Arrival

We followed our ferry’s progress online with a link that Seabridge had given us, so we knew it had arrived in port Sunday afternoon, just about two weeks later.  It takes a couple of days before the vehicle is available, because everything is unloaded from the ferry and customs takes a day or so to check the shipment.

On Wednesday morning (2.5 weeks after dropping the vehicle off in Antwerp), you do two quick visits in Halifax before heading to the port to pick up your vehicle.  First, if you’ve opted for the service, you go to a customs broker affiliated with Seabridge to pick up a packet of documents.  You have to pay $150CAD for this.  The office is located in downtown Halifax (5km from the port) and the visit takes five minutes.  The simplicity of this step in the process was well-worth the money.

Next, you walk 600m to Canadian customs, hand over the forms you received at the customs broker, answer a few questions about the contents of your vehicle and the intention of your trip, and get your documents stamped.  This also took about 10 minutes.

Bruno and I opted to do these visits the Tuesday afternoon, because the vehicle pickup at the port can only happen between 8:30-11:30am and we didn’t want to be rushed for time.  In retrospect this was not necessary – everything can be done in a single morning.

At the port, we went to the entry office, showed our passport and got vests and guest passes.  We were driven into the port to an office, where we handed over our packet of documents.  Someone walked us to the vehicle for a cursory inspection, we signed a document, and the vehicle was ours to drive out of the port!

The custom broker’s office in Halifax.

The port in Halifax, Nova Scotia where we picked up our camper van.

Can you spot Totoyaya???

I can! I can!!

Concluding Thoughts on Our Experience with Seabridge

Based on the dimensions of our vehicle, it cost us 2585 euros to ship our vehicle on the Seabridge ferry from Antwerp, Belgium, to Halifax, Canada.  This price included optional trip insurance.  We also had to pay $150CAD in Halifax for the broker’s services.

While this price was possibly higher than other companies (and several euros per square meter higher than Seabridge used to cost), Bruno was incredibly satisfied with the experience.  It took less than an hour on each end of the shipping, which was so much simpler than his experiences doing any other long distance shipping.  Also, the price we were quoted was the full price, and there were no additional costs that surprised us at any point in the process.  Bruno felt confident and safe with Seabridge, our vehicle arrived undamaged and with nothing missing, and neither of us experienced any stress during the process.

We can thus fully recommend Seabridge for shipping vehicles between North America and Europe, and we would do it again without any hesitation.

FYI, Totoyaya is, indeed, still for sale.  We’ve decided to keep traveling with her in North America until we find her a proper new home.  For all you North American readers, this means that our beloved camper van is now available in your own backyard!  Please do pass the word on!

This is the phrase that Bruno would utter whenever, over the years, we’ve discussed our future overland vehicle and Totoyaya’s replacement.  We’ve seen a huge variety of vehicles over our years on the road, from minivan-like Sprinters and VWs to monster overland trucks like MANs and Unimogs, and from converted 4WD trucks (like those of the overlanding friends I’ve written about on this blog) to standard camper vans (like the one my parents rented in Morocco).  Whenever we admired a larger vehicle, our daydream would be abruptly halted by Bruno’s mantra:  I’m not going to get my truck driver’s license.

A VW van (which, interesting, is exactly what I dreamed of having when I was 17).

A monster Unimog (what we’d want if they didn’t DRINK diesel!).

A Land Rover with a rooftop tent (what you see a lot of in Africa).

A Mercedes sprinter van (just a wee bit too small, and without the clearance we’re looking for).

A standard camper van (too ordinary for us!).

In Europe, a standard driver’s license gives the driver the permission to drive a vehicle up to 3.5 tons in weight.  Things are different in my country, where driver’s licenses authorize a certain class of vehicles, rather than a certain weight.  So whenever Bruno and I dreamed big – bigger than 3.5 tons, or the approximate size of Totoyata – our dream would inevitably come crashing down by the limitations on his driver’s license.

Bruno’s aversion to obtaining his truck driver’s (or “C”) license was mystifying to me.  Sure, he described the lengthy process, but I assumed he was exaggerating (as he is prone to do when he wants to make a point).  As we continued our vehicle discussions, it became increasingly clear that we’d have a difficult time finding the vehicle we were looking for under that 3.5 ton limit.

What were we looking for?  Well, for starters, I wanted a toilet and shower and a larger kitchen with an oven.  Maybe a couple of bunk beds for future kids.  We both wanted something that had high clearance (for decent off-roading), good fuel consumption, and a unique, rugged look.  We wanted something whose interior we could design ourselves, and we both wanted more space and autonomy.

So basically, we didn’t want a traditional camper van.  A few design sketches showed that a minivan would be too small, as would most converted 4WD trucks.  Our ecological side didn’t want the giant overland truck, though, either.  We finally set our sights on a decent compromise: an old Mercedes Vario 14 series.

The perfect vehicle for us – a 4WD, good fuel consumption, high clearance, and lots of space for all the mod-cons I’m looking for. Only problem is it’s more than 3.5 tons.

This one too, this one too!

We’d also consider this one, which isn’t a 4WD but IS everything else.  My mom said it looks like a moving truck, but we’d cut out windows and design the interior ourselves to transform it into a camper van, just like we did with Totoyaya.

We’d also consider buying a Vario without a cell on the back. We’d just build our own.

The only problem was this: Bruno would need to get his truck driver’s license.

If only I had known what this dreaded driver’s test really involved, I’d have settled for the standard camper van.

As you’ll recall, once Bruno and I realized he’d need his C license, we raced from the south coast of Spain to our house in France so we could kick-start the process.  Because, as we contacted driving schools in our area, we realized that the process would be lengthy.

First, there’s the medical appointment.  You can only schedule one with a doctor that’s on the official government list, and this you must do several weeks in advance of the actual appointment.

Once the doctor has deemed you fit to drive, you send a file of papers to the prefecture to get the official go-ahead on the application.  Because of the bureaucratic backlog, this can take up to a month.  Thankfully, the prefecture had just hired a new staff member, so we only waited 15 days.

Once we got the OK, the painful part began – with a 1700 euro payment for the process of obtaining the permit!  Ouch, that hurt.

Then, because Bruno hadn’t done a driver’s exam in over 5 years, he needed to pass the official Driver’s Code test.  The code de la route is a series of 40 questions about anything and everything to do with driving.  You’re shown a real photo of a road scenario and asked a multiple choice question which can have between 1-4 answers, and you have 10 seconds to answer it.  You can only make 5 mistakes.

Bruno began by studying a road manual and trying out free online tests, but he quickly realized he wasn’t going to make much progress this way since the manual didn’t actually prepare for the application questions in the test.  More than that, he needed to learn the technique of taking a test – of understanding the wording, developing time-management skills, and picking out trick questions.  To do this, he needed to do practice tests – and lots of them.  He began going to Sète (a town 45 minutes away where his chosen driving school was located) 3-4 afternoons a week and taking complementary practice tests through a paid website at home.

Bruno’s study face.

After almost 2 weeks of studying, a test date came up, and Bruno figured he might as well try the test – if he failed, another 40 euros would buy him a retake.  We were VERY excited when we found out a few days after the test that he’d passed!  Twenty-five years ago, when he’d gotten his motorcycle license, he’d failed the first go.  A lot of people fail.  The test is much trickier than our friendly Canadian written tests.

Now, almost 4 weeks after we’d started the process, Bruno could officially begin the process of passing his C driver’s license.  First up was the multi-part nightmare exam, le plateau, a 5-part test that takes place entirely in a parking lot.  The exam is out of 21 points, and you lose a point for each tiny mistake.  A few years ago, you could make 8 mistakes and pass, and until a few months ago, you could make 6 mistakes, but now you can only make 3!  You can begin to see why it’s such a dreaded exam, though a detailed description of its five parts will show the complete dreaded picture:

First up is a yes-no written test with 10 questions chosen out of a bank of 200 questions, all particular to truck driving.  A lot of the questions assume you’re going to make a career out of this license and pertain to legal rest times per driving hours and rules according to different vehicle tonnage.  Make an error and you lose a point (which would be a shame, since this is the easiest part of the exam); make 5 errors and you automatically fail.

Then, you approach the truck with the examiner and choose at random one theme out of a possible six – like brakes, lights, assistance, tires.  You must perform a 5-minute safety check, orally describing what you’re checking for.  Forget something and you lose a point.

Next, you choose at random one of twelve documents that you must recite orally by memory.  Topics are things like arriving at the scene of an accident, insurance, and driving under difficult conditions.  Bruno had to recite the document on driving in tunnels.  You lose a point if you know two-thirds of the document, and two points if you know less than half.

Then, you do a physical check around the vehicle along with a safety and speech, a precise way of mounting the vehicle, and a ritual of last-minute checks from the driver’s seat before starting the vehicle.  Each thing you forget is a point lost.

Lastly, you choose at random one of four manoeuvres in the parking lot – veering around cones and into parking spaces – which require precise manoeuvring of the vehicle.  If you hit a cone or a painted line, you automatically fail.

Bruno stressed a lot about the plateau exam.  In fact, I’d never seen him so stressed out.  I’d also never seen him work with such dedication and focus.  For 8 consecutive days, he left for Sète at 8am, studying and practicing there all day, returned home around 6pm, and studied another 2 hours at home.

Bruno was most stressed about the oral recitation of the twelve documents because it meant 24 pages of information to essentially memorize.  You have to remember that Bruno hasn’t been to school in 35 years and hasn’t had to work in 18!

I’d heard about Bruno’s amazingly hard-working work ethic from his friends and family, but I’d never seen it with my own eyes.  No one had exaggerated – Bruno’s focus and total commitment were absolutely awe-inspiring (he puts my own school-days’ work ethic to shame, and that’s saying something!).  I was incredibly impressed and proud of him.

I was even more proud when Bruno passed the plateau exam on the first try!  Once again, he decided to take the test before he felt ready because we’re a bit limited by time and the test is only offered 2-3 times a month.  He decided to go into exam day as relaxed as possible, and it paid off.  He was the first to take the test, and the examiner even noted to Bruno’s teacher that he wished every candidate were as competent!  Go Bruno!

He passed the plateau! Only one more step to go!

Now, only one part of the exam was left: the actual driving test!  Unfortunately, the driving school only had one teacher for several students taking all sorts of different driving exams.  For the plateau, Bruno did a lot of independent study, but for the driving test, he needed the teacher in order to go out and practice with their 12m-long truck.  He had to schedule appointments with the teacher whenever the man was free, which wasn’t nearly often enough.

Top that off with the fact that May is a month full of holidays in France (4!!) and Bruno had only clocked in 4-5 hours of actual driving time before his driver’s test.  On the one hand, he wanted to wait an extra two weeks before taking the test because he hadn’t gotten the hang of such a large vehicle on such narrow roads (not to mention roundabouts); but on the other hand, he realllllly wanted this whole C-license experience behind him.  It had rotted away his life for 6 weeks now, and he really wanted to turn the page on the whole thing.

So, despite the fact that you only get three tries for the driver’s test before having to re-pass the plateau, he opted to try the driver’s test on May 18^th.

He was gone all day long.  Waiting nervously in Sète until the much-feared, ill-reputed examiner took him for his afternoon rush-hour drive through the nearby town of Mèze.  The test lasted 45 sweaty, nerve-wracking minutes, and the examiner came and went poker-faced.

Bruno was left to wait and wonder.  He actually spent a sleepless night, post-test, reliving the experience and noting every possible point he could have lost.  He thought he’d failed.

When the secretary at the driving school called two mornings later to announce the good news – that Bruno had passed, with flying colors! – it seemed too good to be true.  We both burst out laughing!  After weeks of stress and work and absolute life-polluting hardship, Bruno had obtaining his truck driver’s license!

Bruno passed the final step of his truck driver’s license!! Woopee!!!

Not only did he pass, but he did so with flying colors. He needed 17/27 to pass, and the man made 26! Yo! (And Bruno wants everyone to know that he only lost that 1 point because the gear box on his vehicle was messed up.)

Bruno got to choose how to celebrate the night we got the news – he chose pizza and wine on the terrace!

Almost a week has passed since Bruno received the good news, yet he’s still on Cloud 9.  He’s smiling a lot more.  Sometimes I’ll see him sitting and gazing out the window, just relaxing, just being in the moment.  He went for a beach walk with me for the first time since we’ve been in France.  And he’s stopped complaining about our social engagements and yoga classes.  I’ve gotten my relaxed, happy Bruno back!

If I’d known that getting the truck driver’s license in France was going to be this much of a hurdle, I’d have chosen instead the standard camping car.  But now that my hubby is officially a truck driver (gosh, I never thought I’d say that with such enthusiasm!), we’re both excitedly imagining our future beautifully-unique and wonderfully-big overland vehicle.

We’re going to buy the biggest truck we can!

(Not really, but that’s how we feel right now.)

Actually, let me rephrase that: You can absolutely depend upon us to make – and then change – our plans (the Travel Plans section of our blog can attest to this).  Here, on the Mediterranean Coast of Spain, is yet another example of our reliable unreliability.

The guilty parties.

The Mediterranean Coast of Spain, the scene of the crime.

Original plan: Spend two slow-travel months on the coast of Spain, then take a ferry on April 29^th from Barcelona to Italy, zoom up to Switzerland, leave our vehicle there, and spend three weeks in May visiting family and friends in France.

What actually happened: We relaxed on the coast of Spain for exactly two weeks before hightailing it toward France, reaching our family and our house ten days later, on March 25^th.

In order to understand another total upheaval of our plan, it is necessary to explain the unfolding of a series of events and trains of thought over the course of our final weeks in Morocco and our first few weeks in Spain.

You already know that we’d originally planned to stay in Morocco a month longer, but that, at the last minute, we’d opted to head back to Spain because the Moroccan tourist visa renewal process proved more complicated than we felt like dealing with.  So, with our sights set on two months in Spain, we booked a ferry ticket from Barcelona to Genoa for Totoyaya and ourselves.  The logic behind this was that Bruno didn’t want to risk driving our vehicle through France because his papers are severely out-of-date.  We’d squeaked through France the year before without being noticed, but he didn’t want to repeat that stressful drive.

We’d chosen April 29^th because we wanted to arrive at Bruno’s brother’s place near Geneva before the first weekend in May, drive down to the south of France with him to celebrate their mother’s 80^th birthday, spend a bit of time with family, and then head north to Germany where we plan to put Totoyaya on a ferry to Canada in time for summer.

Yet, over the course of our first few weeks in southern Spain, we began to silently ponder the virtue of this plan.  I was thinking it and Bruno was thinking it but neither of us were talking about it.  Our ticket was booked and paid for – the plan was seemingly set in stone.  I was even talking to a few friends in Europe about meeting up with them along the Spanish coast.

The reasons we were silently second-guessing our plan were threefold.  Let me list them from least to most important:

1. We were feeling totally out-of-place in the camping culture of Spain.  I’ve talked about the campsites full of retirees before so I’m not going to rehash this topic again, but suffice to say the feeling like outsiders in our supposed community was beginning to really get to us.
2. Bad weather.  It was unseasonably cold in southern Spain for March.  Sometimes the sun managed to defrost the chill accumulated during the 6°C nights, but often the daytime wind and clouds kept that chill deeply embedded within us.  Yes, I know my Canadian family members are rolling their eyes right now, but let me just say that when you live in a camper van, you feel the weather so much more. You don’t have proper heating, you don’t have sufficient space indoors to seek refuge when it’s cold.  You eat outside, you shower in faraway public unheated bathrooms, you wash your dishes in cold water outdoors.  If it’s wet, cloudy, or windy, you don’t have the option to cocoon yourself in a toasty warm house.  You just have to face the cold.  And the cold was becoming a pain in our sides.
3. We felt the weight of responsibility at home.  This was the big one.  And the one I should probably explain a bit more in-depth.

Check out that storm (and the proximity of the next camper van)!

Curled under my heavy-duty winter duvet in the middle of the afternoon!!

Remember the post I made a couple months ago? The one about us selling our beloved Totoyaya?  That may have come out of thin air for most of you, but for us it was the result of a long-time conversation that really came to a head in southern Spain.

In Africa, traveling in a tiny vehicle without a toilet or shower was no big thing.  The weather was great and there were amazing, empty, cheap campsites in beautifully-located scenic chunks of nature.  It was totally awesome!

In the Middle East, I started to feel the challenges of our lack of facilities-on-board.  On the Arabian Peninsula there were no campsites, and we started having to think of creative ways of taking care of our daily needs, like showering with the bum guns of squat toilets in gas stations and bike riding to the nearest mosque for our morning, um, toilet needs.  In Dubai, I took out a yoga membership and used their shower, and in Oman we camped on beaches so we could grab sand in our plastic bucket and turn that into a porto-potty.  We used a lot of incense on the Arabian Peninsula.

In Turkey, things were better because there were campsites again, but the culture of those campsites started to change the closer we got to Europe.  By the time we got to Italy, I’d come to loathe the mega-campsites that were more like pricey mini-retirement-cities.  When I have to pay $30 to squeeze Totoyaya between two giant motorhomes on the edge of a busy road and then insert 1 euro coins into the shower for 2 minutes of water, I’ve lost the joy of camping.

The south of Spain offers four types of sleeping scenarios for camper vanners:

1. Free parking, widely available.  You can find a list of many of them online, and you will often see more when driving along (look for the agglomeration of parked camper vans).  We tried this a few times, but it was so complicated for us to find a place for our morning needs (cough) that it wasn’t a practical option for us.
2. Bush camping, technically illegal (we think).  We did this a few times in northern Spain, when we were sure we wouldn’t get noticed or hassled, but southern Spain is much more populated and “dangerous” so Bruno didn’t feel safe using this option.
3. Campsites, widely available year-long along the Mediterranean Coast.  But as mentioned previously, they weren’t at all our scene.  We occasionally found a few decent ones with a bit of space and at “decent” prices, but most of the time the campsites simply incited us to move on the next day.
4. Camper Areas, sometimes available, and an interesting concept.  They are essentially parking areas fitted out with some luxuries like basic toilets, showers, and facilities to fill and empty water.  The prices are better than for campsites (usually between 7-12 euros), but you are still usually stuck between motorhomes and busy roads.  This was our preferred accommodation option in southern Spain, but it still didn’t satisfy my soul.  I missed what camping had meant to me in Africa – peace, solitude, and communion with nature.

We occasionally hit-up bush camps that gave us views like this one, but the cops forced us on the following day.

This free parking gave us this view from the window! (But there was no toilet…)

You see the few camper vans parked along the water? It’s a free parking/sleeping spot.

As Bruno and I passed through southern Spain, the long-time theoretical conversation of selling Totoyaya became more concrete.  It felt like now was the time.  The time to create a more comfortable living situation, certainly, but even more importantly, the time to regain the freedom that this lifestyle had meant for us and that now we felt we had lost.

We began to seriously look at replacement vehicles.  We discussed our lifestyle priorities and realized that we wouldn’t find what we were looking for in a lightweight vehicle.  In France, Bruno’s regular driver’s license only authorizes him to drive a vehicle lighter than 3.5 tons – anything heavier and you need a truck driver’s license (C).  This C license is a very long, and very strenuous process in France.  To top all the vehicle stuff off, we’re trying to rent Bruno’s house on the beach by ourselves this year because we had had negative, unsuccessful experiences with rental agencies the previous two seasons.

So, here we were biding our time on the coast of Spain when we really needed to be focused on selling Totoyaya, passing the truck driver’s license, trying to find a new French-matriculated vehicle, and getting our house rental-ready.

All of these things would be easier to do from France.

Once our minds were made up and our plan had been turned on its head, we hit the road, fast.  On the map, we’d only covered four fingers in two weeks.  Now we would cover thirty in ten days.

If you’re going to do a road-trip, you could choose a worse place than the southern coast of Spain.  The road is good (memories of harrowing African road trips come to mind), there’s accommodation and food everywhere, and if you stay away from the highways you can almost always drive along a road that literally skirts the coast.  It’s the views that make this road trip worth it (though if you have time and inclination, there are tons of worthy town stops).

Some of the views along the roadside during our road trip up the Mediterranean Coast of Spain.

Cool chunk of road!

Pure rock.

Plastic greenhouses for miles.

My memories of this road trip are almost all a blur of arid cliffs, whitewashed towns, and sandy coves, but I was smart enough to write down my impressions of different chunks of coastline as we drove past.

From Algeciras to Nerja: highly developed coastline, not very beautiful

From Nerja to Motril: lovely section, with a small parque natural, fairly lush flora, and quaint villages

From Adra to Almeria: not so nice, a lot of agriculture and plastic greenhouses

From Almeria to Aguilas: perhaps my favourite section of coastline, very rugged and arid, empty of human development, a large parque natural

From Aguilas to Benidorm: nothing special of note, more developed and more agricultural

From Benidorm to Gandia: less sea views but lovely rocks, fields, and traditional agricultural towns

From Gandia to Peníscola: nothing special of note, less coastal views and more towns and agriculture

Most of our tourism was of the drive-by variety, but we always did some exercise-tourism in the evenings.  The Spanish believe the coastline belongs to all Spaniards; as such, almost all of Spain’s 5,000km of coastline is public.  Restaurants and cafés line the coast, but even more wonderful are the seemingly-continuous promenades.  Since Bruno and I were spending a lot of time sitting in the car, our evening routine consisted of finding the coastal promenade and going for a bike ride or speed walk.

Nice bike path, right?

Another bike path.

Amazing bike paths, right?

An afternoon walk on a random beachside promenade.

When we hit-up Peníscola’s promenade, the first thing I saw was a fairy-tale-like fortified castle seemingly floating on the water.  I’d been good so far and hadn’t asked Bruno to allow me any tourism stops during our road trip, but old Peníscola was calling to me.  I had to see it.

Thus, we granted ourselves one final day of tourism before our arrival in France and the beginning of a non-nomadic period of our life.  We did what we’d become accustomed to do in Europe: grab our backpacks and cameras, walk to the historical area of town, grab a map from the tourist office, and then wander the cobblestone streets.  We gazed out at the sea and the coastline from the little fortified islet, we admired the old buildings (especially the one made entirely out of seashells), and we looked at a ton of restaurant menus.  But the town was filled with tourists, the menus were expensive, and I was quickly over it.  I was ready to head “home.”

Peníscola beckons from the promenade.

Visiting Peníscola – our final day our tourism.

The seashell house.

View of Peníscola’s city beach and promenade from its castle-like old town.

As we drove past Barcelona, I felt a slight pang – it’s a city I keep planning to visit and keep missing – but I was too busy navigating Bruno on and off ramps and exits to dwell on it.  It wasn’t until we reached that night’s campsite near Figueres and the border of France that it hit me.  This was it: our final night in Totoyaya, maybe forever.

As Bruno and I wandered around the farm on which we were camped, a deep sadness washed over us.  We visited the flower trees, vegetable garden, and small hot-spring waterfall nearby, and I felt like we’d reconnected with what camping had meant to us back in Africa, when I started this overland journey.  Bruno and I had come so far – both literally and figuratively – since then, and now we were ending an era.  We were moving onto a brand new chapter of our lives, one that would involve houses and driving tests instead of our trusty Totoyaya, the only constant since the very beginning.

Before you get too sad, dear readers, let me remind you of one thing: Bruno and I are reliable plan-makers in only one way – our unreliability.  You’ll have to stay tuned of Wandering Footsteps for the continuing details.

As close to Barcelona as I may ever get.

Our final campsite with Totoyaya, perhaps forever.

The nature, the peace, the solitude – the way camping should be.

Preamble: It’s a giant pet-peeve of mine when people use the word “Africa” as though it’s a country, and not a gigantic and amazingly diverse continent.  It might seem to some that I’m doing just that in this blog post.  I assure you I’m not.  I know we’re in fact traveling to Morocco here, and not Africa-the-country, but the excitement and hesitation I talk about in the post are really and truly about stepping foot again on a continent that fascinates and challenges me.  I’ve never been to Morocco before, so I can’t talk about re-entering Morocco.  I can – and will – now talk about re-entering Africa.  Thereafter, I promise to write only about Morocco-the-country and to avoid sweeping statements about “Africa.”

On January 7^th of this year, after touring around Africa for over three years, Bruno and I ferried ourselves and Totoyaya off the “Dark Continent” and onto the Arabian Peninsula, the Middle East, and Europe.

Goodbye Africa… or so I thought.

Less than eleven months later, we’re back in Africa.

As we drove, lightning-speed, through Spain’s Andalucían province, the reality of soon being back in Africa set in, and I couldn’t help but mentally list the challenges associated with travel in this region.  Most of the things I thought about were quite silly, in retrospect: the fact that electricity and hot water would be luxuries rather than givens; that toilets wouldn’t be up to the cleanliness standards I prefer; that I wouldn’t always be able to find special foods at grocery stores; and that I’d have to dress more conservatively than in Europe.

One thing on that list, however, wasn’t so silly; in fact, it’s the crux of my beef with travel in Africa.  I don’t blend in.

Yup, I’m a white girl (surprise!).  With blonde hair and blue eyes, to top it off.  I stand out in pretty much every country in Africa.  (And in the southern part of the continent, where there are native white Africans, the racial issues as so complex that it’s not necessarily beneficial to semi-blend-in there).  Standing out can be a challenge in Africa (or anywhere, really) because it can make you a target for touts, can lead to negative attention from men, and can box you into tourist-only interactions with locals.

Can you spot me in the crowd?

It’d be great to be a chameleon, right?

I guess I’ve enjoyed being invisible in Europe.  I can sit at a café, take public transportation, or walk down a street and be totally ignored.  In Europe, I can pretend to be a local, at least until I open my mouth.

With all these challenges – both big and small – you might be asking yourself why, less than a year after leaving Africa, we were willingly ferrying ourselves back in.  There were practical reasons – our desire to avoid a European winter and our planned family reunion, for example.   But I think we were heading back into Africa, really, because we are perpetually drawn to it.  We weren’t really heading there at all, I truly think – we were being pulled back there.  Quite simply, we love Africa, challenges and all.

Just like when we set off to walk the Camino de Santiago, my mental enumeration of challenges was simply a way to prepare myself for our return, to wrap my mind around our new project. In this case, however, the activity was making me more hesitant than excited for our impending departure.

Practicalities of the Ferry Ride Between Spain and Morocco

That was my head-space as we organized our roll-on-roll-off (RORO) ferry from Spain to Morocco.  Thankfully, the experience was incredibly straightforward.  We visited Viajes Normandie Shipping Agency in Palmones (N36 10.765 W5 26.475), recommended by our overlanding friends as well as our guide book because they offer open return tickets, meaning you don’t have to pick your dates ahead of time. With a passport, our vehicle registration, and 200 euros cash, we had our return ticket ready in 10 minutes.

We bought our ferry tickets through this agency, as they offer open-ended return trips.

We’re not the only camping car headed to Africa, just maybe the smallest! :)

We chose to take the ferry from Algeciras (Spain) to Tangier Med (Morocco), but you can also go from Algeciras to Ceuta (which is a Spanish enclave on African soil) or Tarifa to Tangier City (Tarifa being at the southernmost tip of Spain).  All tickets are the same price, and our ferry ride was the longest, but we preferred arriving at the quieter port of Tangier Med than in a big city port, and we wanted to get all the immigration stuff done on the boat rather than at a land border, as those who arrive in Ceuta must do.

There are several companies (at least three that I know of) that ply the routes between Spain and Morocco, so there are ample departures.  Our company, FRS, currently departs every three hours from 9am – 9pm.  As such, we weren’t worried about not being able to depart on the date of our choosing – we didn’t reserve, but simply queued in the correct line at the port about an hour before our desired departure.  My passport received its Schengen exit stamp, we drove the vehicle into the boat ourselves, we walked up to the passenger deck, and that was that.

Waiting in the immigration line before boarding the ferry from Algeciras, Spain, to Tangier Med, Morocco.

All aboard! Our ferry to Morocco is in view!

Parking our vehicle on the car deck of our ferry.

It was a pleasant 90-minute ride on a fairly clean, practically empty boat (a totally different experience from our ferry ride between Sudan and Saudi Arabia to leave the continent earlier this year).  We had a picnic lunch (there is a restaurant on the boat, too) then stood outside on the stern to watch Europe fade from view and the African coast come into focus.  The Strait of Gibraltar is really narrow so you can actually see both continents at the same time, which is interesting.  There are reputedly a ton of dolphins in the strait, and sure enough, we saw a pod of about twenty of them swim past us (it happened too quickly to photograph, however).

When the boat docked in Morocco, we walked down to our vehicle and were out of the boat a few minutes later.  Our passports had been stamped on the boat (at the passport control desk on the passenger deck), but we had to go through customs at the port’s exit gate.  Our shipping agent had graciously prepared the forms we needed (a declaration of temporary importation form, or D16TER) for customs, but it still took about thirty minutes of waiting for the officers to process the paperwork.  That’s when I knew we were on African time again.

Goodbye Europe…

… hello Africa!

The Rock of Gibraltar, at the tip of Europe.

The Moroccan coastline as we approached Tangier Med.

Back in Africa!

As soon as we drove out of the sterile port, my senses awakened in a way that can only happen in certain areas of the world (and Europe is not one of them).  There was so much to look at!  Brightly-dressed women, chaotic towns, market stalls set up on the side of the streets selling anything you could imagine, animals crossing the potholed-filled roads.

I had spent so much time thinking of the comforts I wouldn’t have access to that I’d totally forgotten about all that Africa offers to its visitors.  It only took me about five minutes of driving in Morocco to remember.  I’d get to tap into my bargaining skills in the markets again, sample cheap street food with the locals, and do my groceries on the roadsides.  Best of all, I’d never be bored while driving – there was simply too much to engage my senses.

So much to look at!

So much to buy!

So much chaos!

Now that I was actually back in Africa, I was officially excited!  And I guess I wasn’t the only one – when Bruno saw on our customs document that our vehicle had been given a six-month stay, he immediately began talking about extending our three-month Moroccan tourist visa so we could stay longer.

I know the challenges I contemplated while driving through Andalucía will sometimes make me long for the comfort or invisibility of Europe, but on the whole, it feels really good to be back in Africa, our beloved continent.  It actually sort of feels like we’ve come home, or at least to our sweet spot.  I guess that, even if my mind doesn’t know it, my heart likes travel that comes with a healthy dose of challenge.

When we decided to walk the Camino de Santiago, Bruno and I were vague about how long the journey would last.  We purposely left the particulars open because we didn’t know how Bruno’s knee would handle the walk.  Yes, we’d tested his knee out on a day-walk in the Pyrenees, but three months after surgery, you can never be sure how it will manage on a long-distance hike.

So it’s ironic that it’s my foot blisters – and not Bruno’s knee, which is holding up great – initiating discussions of ending our Camino.

I take a day to relax my feet in Santillana del Mar.  We even reward ourselves with a night in a fancy hospedaje, a charming old guesthouse just off Plaza Mayor.  We wander around the museum-like medieval town and sit in the sun in the courtyard of Collegiata de Santa Julia, Santillana’s iconic church.

Santillana del Mar’s Collegiata de Santa Julia.

Plaza Mayor. Our guesthouse is the white building on the side street.

My feet are feeling better.  I’m convinced my day-off will work wonders, that I’ll be back to normal the following morning for our 24km walk to Comillas.

And that’s why my spirit positively drops as I walk up and out of Santillana.  I walk like I have jagged rocks in my socks.

Despite good intentions, my blisters are back with a vengeance.  The route we pass is so charming – rolling hills, tiny churches and hermitages, glimpses of the sea and the Picos de Europa mountains – but I can’t enjoy any of it.  I’m too busy relearning how to walk in any way that provides relief, and changing shoes like Kim Kardashian changes outfits.  Maybe I can be the first, I contemplate, to walk all the way to Santiago in flip flops.

I make it through those 24km with six blisters, and I feel proud of my determination.  I even manage a bit of sight-seeing – you can’t come to Comillas and not visit El Capricho de Gaudì (yes, that Gaudì).  I’m resolved not to let these blisters get to me.

Yep, I’m walking the Camino in flip flops. Maybe I can make it to Santiago this way..?

An hermitage on the Camino.

Lovely countryside, with the Picos de Europa mountain range in the distance.

El Capricho de Gaudì in Comillas.

Amazingly – and despite 6 blisters! – I manage a little sightseeing in Comillas.

They do take up a lot of my head-space, however. As I walk, I can think of little else.  I philosophize on the root cause of the original blisters – my crooked toes from being in ice skating boots so many years? my new shoes not properly broken in? too small? an incorrect natural walk?  I think about how bored Bruno must be to be walking at 3km/hour.

And I realize that I’m not going to make it to Santiago.  Not this time.

I’m ok with that.  Santiago had never been the goal, anyway.  But I promise myself that blisters won’t be the cause of our stopping.  That would be a defeat – it would mean that I can’t handle long-distance walking.  We’ll stop the Camino when we want to stop, I determine, not because we have to stop.

With that decision, a weight is lifted off my shoulders and I begin to experience my surroundings again.  I enjoy walking across the 28-arch 15^th century bridge that leads to St. Vicente de la Barquera.  I admire the South American architecture in Colombres.  And I positively giggle at the blow holes and wind tunnels along the amazing coastal views on the Senda Costera route.  The variety of landscapes we’ve experienced along the Camino – forests, hills, coastline, mountains, wetlands, countryside, villages, towns, and cities – in less than a week is astounding.  I’d expected the scenery to be mundane; it’s anything but.

Our approach of St. Vicente de la Barquera.

Approaching Colombres, with its unusual south-American colonial architecture.

Ummm…. so could this view GET any better?

Descending into Llanes from a forest, just after checking out a monastery.

In Pendueles, a tiny town at the edge of the province of Asturias – yes, we walked from one province to another! – we meet an American couple who’ve been walking the Camino for almost two months.  They’ve been plagued by problems – sprained ankles that kept them off the trail for weeks and, yes, blisters on their baby toes.

They teach me how to tape my two smallest toes to protect them from more blisters.  The tape will prevent the baby toe from falling under the next toe and taking all my weight.

Were the Americans little angels I met on the Way of St. James?  I’m not sure, but I do know their taping tactics worked.  By the end of my walk the next day I am feeling better – and walking faster – than I have in almost a week!  At a viewpoint overlooking a massive beach, the blue sky and summer-like heat of the day make me want to shout out James Cameron-style comments about being the king of the world.

The Senda Costera – a worthy detour to Pendueles.

WIth my taped-up toes, I’m ready for some real walking!

I’m the king of the world!!

It’s too bad the high of conquering my blisters cannot last.  The day I met the Americans, I also noticed some tiny bites on my shoulder and neck.  At first, I think they are mosquitoes, but by the time we arrive in Llanes, my bites have multiplied.  I conclude, horrified, that they must be bed bugs and order all of our belongings – including our backpacks and shoes – to be washed and dried at high heat.

When I wake up the next morning with new bites on my chest and face, my heart plummets even deeper than it had the morning I walked out of Santillana with rocks in my socks.

I hop on Google and freak myself out with pictures of various biting creatures and methods of extermination.  I force Bruno to help me scrutinize every inch of our belongings for evidence of bed bugs, which are big enough to see with the naked eye.  We spot nothing and so walk on that day to Cuerres and Casa Belen, another albergue de donativo.

Run by a German couple, Manfred and Birgitta, Casa Belen is the most cozy-feeling and welcoming albergue we’ve stayed in on our Camino.  Manfred shows us to the pilgrim quarters upstairs, which include a lounge area and kitchen which we can treat like our own.  Birgitta cooks us a delicious vegetarian meal with produce from their garden.  They both take a genuine interest in our life and show us a hospitality that I truly thought was dead in the West.

Llanes ahead!

Genuine hospitality from Manfred and Birgitta.

In desperation, I paint nail polish on all my bites. If there are eggs buried in my skin, the polish will suffocate them and kill them. A skill learned in Senegal.

Yet, something doesn’t feel right.  I still haven’t gotten to the bottom of my strange bug bites.  I feel good that I’m not bringing bed bugs into Manfred and Birgitta’s home, but what am I bringing in?  The idea of some unknown creature going to town on me every night is beginning to make me crazy.  My sleeping bag – brought along to protect me from the potential filth of albergue beds – has become my enemy.

The albergues have gotten the best of me after all.  My initial assessment of the challenges along the Camino was correct – not being able to sleep in my own bed is rightfully at the top of the list.

In Ribadesella, I head straight for the Centro de Salud, where a doctor tells me something I’m surprised to hear: fleas.  I got fleas from one of the albergues, and I’m experiencing an allergic reaction.

I thought fleas only liked dogs.  Has my hygiene really gone that much downhill since becoming a pilgrim?

My new mission in life becomes to find another washer and dryer.  I become obsessed with it, searching for it in each town and refusing to sleep again until we’ve solved our problem.  My one-track mind proves impossible for Bruno to deal with, and even though we pass more gorgeous coastal views and interesting villages with orios – wooden houses built on stilts for preventing rodents from getting to stored grain – we both know we’ve reached the end of our Camino road.

When we wake up to rain the following morning in La Isla, I’m almost happy.  Weather – one of my initial concerns – has been excellent throughout most of our walk (we learn afterwards that we’ve been incredibly fortunate in this respect, because the Camino del Norte is renowned for its rainy weather).  Bruno has been saying for days that we’ll walk until it rains.  Neither of us likes walking in the rain, and it requires a re-organization of belongings we’re not prepared for.

Is the coast gorgeous everywhere in northern Spain?

An orio on the Camino.

The first and only rain we got before the last morning of our Camino.

When the rain forces me to wear my Goretex Merrels (which are too small for my taped toes) and my healing blisters start to feel aggravated, we decide to call it quits.  It’s actually not as simple of a decision as that, and we hum and haw in the rain for an hour – me despondent, scratching, and raving about a washing machine.  The idea of our Camino being over at such a low moment doesn’t feel right.

But a bus shows up, and we hop on it, not caring where it’s going.  The moment I step onto the bus, the spell of the Camino is broken.  I’m no longer a pilgrim.  Just like that, I’ve snapped myself back into regular reality and am no longer privy to the secrets of the Camino.

As we bus ourselves back to the starting point of our Camino, I watch the familiar scenery go by.  Backtracking, kilometer by kilometer, feels as though we’re erasing our walk.  Was our Camino so futile as five hours on three busses?

As I write these words and sort through photos and journal entries of the experience, I know for sure that the answer is an unequivocal no.  I haven’t written this much in my journal since I met Bruno and began living in a camper van.  I haven’t had so many challenges and stories and encounters to share on my blog in months.  If travel is about experience –good or bad – then I hit a goal-mine on the Camino.

The good.

The bad.

The ugly..?

It was interesting for a couple of overlanders to experience a region by foot.  I wouldn’t say that it slowed our tourism down, because we generally travel very slowly.  But it did slow down our transits, allowing us to experience details of the places in between our destinations.  And it gave us a more “on-the-ground” glimpse of the places we passed by removing a barrier (our vehicle) between us and the landscape and its people.  It felt like we could reach out and touch Spain.

Walking the Camino also reminded me to appreciate the luxury of my overland style of travel.  When we set back out of the road from France in early October, I expressed some difficulties in readjusting to such a small space after several months living in houses.  Well, that feeling is definitely gone now!  When we finally returned to Totoyaya, I slept better than I had in months.  If I had any residual feelings of discomfort in Totoyaya before setting out on the Camino, they are gone now for sure!

And last but not least, walking the Camino gifted me the experience of a long-distance hike, at last.  In ten days, Bruno and I walked roughly 225km, from Laredo to Colunga, more than I ever imagined I could walk.  We may have been able to cover those kilometers in a single day’s drive in Totoyaya, and that number may not be impressive to experienced pilgrims and hikers, but that’s beside the point.  After years of curiosity and obsession, I now know not only that I can do a long-distance hike, but that, despite all the challenges, I like it.

So would I recommend the Camino de Santiago to others?  Most definitely!  Though it may come as a surprise to those who have just followed the narrative of these last two blog posts, Bruno and I are already talking about either finishing the Norte route or trying another route to Santiago someday.  You’ll have to stay tuned to Wandering Footsteps to find out when that someday happens!

A Few Tips and Recommendations for Those Planning their Camino

1. You don’t need to bring a guide book on your Camino because the sign-posts are excellent.  However, a guide book that offers more than one route, as well as a few scenic detours, can add to the experience.  We quickly learned that there is more than one way to Santiago!

A few of the sign-posts to Santiago.

2. We used two websites to plan our day’s destination and research sleeping options: Gronze and Eroski Consumer.  Both are in Spanish but they key information was easily decipherable without needing Spanish-language skills.

3. In summer – high season – we would recommend purchasing a local SIM card and bringing a phone along to call ahead and reserve a bed in the albergues (you can do that at most private ones).  Though we didn’t personally have that worry because we walked in late-October, I know that there aren’t always enough beds for all the pilgrims in high season, even on the Camino del Norte.  A tent is a great alternative, and something Bruno and I are definitely planning to bring next time (if only to avoid fleas!).

4. Design realistic daily steps.  The kilometer guides on the websites and books don’t take into account the detours you will make or the extra footsteps it will take to find your accommodation.  Also, I was quite surprised at how many hours it took us to walk our day’s 20-25km – usually about 7-8 hours.  Sure, this was partially due to my blisters, but all the little stops – water breaks, food shopping, picnics, gear reorganization, pee breaks, blister surgery, map consultations, photo opportunities – add up.  Keep all this in mind when determining how many days you’ll need to walk your Camino.  Give yourself a few cushion days or plan to do less.

5. Pack lightly.  Try to fit everything in a day backpack if you can.  You can find almost any necessity on each day’s walk, as you always pass through at least one big town.  Do, however, bring at least two pairs of walking shoes and lots of extra socks.  Most of the Camino takes place on tarred road, which is a lot more damaging to your feet, and so you need to take care of them from the get-go!

Buen Camino!

Recognize those two pilgrims on the Camino de Santiago?

It’s unusual for Bruno and me to travel without our trusty Totoyaya. In the last few years, Wandering Footsteps has chronicled our overland-style travels. Content involving long-distance hikes and backpacker travel don’t feature very frequently here, anymore.

Perhaps that’s why our decision to become walking pilgrims on the Camino de Santiago requires a bit of an explanation. That, then, is the subject of this blog entry: what this adventure is all about, why we decided to do it, and how we prepared for a different style of travel than we’re normally used to. (For those looking for stories about our experience on the Camino, two posts on the subject will follow in the coming days.)

I described the Camino de Santiago as both “ancient” and “infamous.” I chose those adjectives deliberately; it has existed as a pilgrimage for over 1,000 years, but has experienced a rebirth in popularity in the last thirty years or so. The “Walk to Santiago,” also called the Way of St. James, is a journey, via any of dozens of ancient routes, to the holy shrine of St. James in Santiago de Compostela. It is one of the three most important Christian pilgrimages in the world – the other two being Rome and Jerusalem.

The many ways to Santiago.

The goal: Santiago de Compostela.

St. James was one of Jesus’ disciples. After Jesus’ death, his disciples scattered to different regions of the world, from Ethiopia and India to Persia and Armenia, spreading the message of Christ. James went to Spain, where he succeeded in converting nine Iberians to Christianity. Eventually, he returned to the Holy Land and was martyred. According to belief, James’ body was brought to Spain (perhaps by angels in a holy boat?) and buried in a Roman burial site near the northwest coast.

James was forgotten for 800 years, until a hermit saw a bright star in the sky, followed it to the field where James had been buried, uncovered the body and saw that it was still intact. James became the patron saint of Spain and helped the Iberians fight back the Moors. Word of the miracle spread and pilgrims began to arrive from all over. Monasteries and churches were erected, and by the 11^th century, the Way of St. James was a heavily-traveled pilgrim route.

In 2015, it is still – or I should say, “again” – a heavily-traveled pilgrim route. Sometime in the 1980s, the Camino de Santiago was declared the first European Cultural Route and an UNESCO World Heritage Site. Pilgrims once again started to flock to the trails; for some, it was a religious pilgrimage, as it had been for centuries; but many walked for other reasons – an interesting form of tourism, a challenging long-distance hike, a chance to commune with nature, a spiritual meditation.

Catching sight of a few modern-day pilgrims on the way to Santiago.

Bruno and I are part of that second category of walkers. I hope I won’t offend anyone, but we weren’t taking part in the Camino as a religious pilgrimage. The truth is, I’ve become interested in long-distance walks in the last couple of years and have been searching for an opportunity to try one for awhile now. The last time I went on more than a day walk was trekking in the Himalayas while I was living in Nepal. Even though I hold amazing memories of the experience, walking wasn’t my favorite pastime back in 2007. It was become so in recent years.

In the last year, in particular, I’ve become minorly obsessed with the idea of a doing a long-distance walk. I subscribe to a podcast called “Sounds of the Trail,” which documents the experiences of through-hikers in the US. I researched Turkey’s 500km cultural walk, the Lycian Way, and sampled a few days of it when I realized we didn’t have the time or equipment to walk the whole thing. I often daydream about what it would be like to do nothing but walk for months on end, and relish the opportunity to undergo the physical challenge and the emotional growth that I assume would come of such an experience.

So when Bruno proposed that we walk a bit of the Camino de Santiago when passing through Northern Spain with our camper van, I didn’t think twice.

Yes. Yes, yes, yes!

To be honest, I was surprised that Bruno was game for a long-distance walk. He loves walking – maybe even more than me – but he also loves the simplicity of being able to return to his home at the end of the day – maybe even more than I love the comfort of it. I didn’t expect him to want to go through the preparations it would inevitably take to embark on a long-distance walk.

That’s why the Camino de Santiago was the perfect walk for us. Essentially, the Camino is a walk from village to village, where an extensive support system is in place to help pilgrims on their journey. Practically speaking, this means you don’t need to have much gear and that you will always be able to find a hot meal and a bed at the end of the day. There is also excellent signage, so you don’t even really need a map or to know where you’re going. You can pretty much just show up, unprepared, and start to walk.

That isn’t exactly what Bruno and I did, of course, but it’s almost. I did enough research to determine which route section we would walk. There are a half-dozen or so routes on the Iberian Peninsula that lead to Santiago de Compostela, and all of them are between 700-1,000km long. We already knew we would walk the Camino del Norte, the northernmost route along the Atlantic Coast. Not only was it along the route we’d already planned to drive with Totoyaya, but it’s a much less popular route, and we prefer roads-less-traveled. We also knew that we wouldn’t walk all 825km of the Camino – Bruno’s knee surgery was just three months ago, after all, and we didn’t really have the five weeks needed to devote to the trail. So we needed to figure out which part of the Camino del Norte to walk.

If you’re not going to walk the whole 800km, it’s hard to choose which section of the Camino del Norte to do!

I quizzed our good friend, Phil (of Phil and Angie, overlanders extraordinaire), who’d done the entire Camino last fall. With his tips, I pinpointed the area a day’s walk after Bilbao as an ideal section of the Camino for us to try. It seemed to maximize coastal views, minimize industrial areas, and allow flexibility for us to walk as little or as much as we wanted. We set ourselves the goal of walking anywhere between 5-10 days.

By this point, we were in already in Spain. We started catching glimpses of Camino paraphernalia and realized we were driving along the Camino Frances, the most popular way to Santiago. Signs, yellow arrows, and scallop shells popped up along roadsides near Jaca. Albergues and hiker shops appeared when we turned corners of old alley streets in Pamplona and Estella. Pilgrims, clearly recognizable with their walking sticks and scallop shells tied onto heavy packs, paused to look at an old building or to localize the next yellow arrow in Bilbao. All these little pieces of Camino evidence got me really excited for our own upcoming pilgrimage!

The first Camino sign I saw in Spain, driving along the road!

Yep, you didn’t mis-read that number. And people walk that, and more!

The scallop shell is the official symbol of the Camino, both because of legend and symbolism.

It was time to pack. Because we live in a camping car, Bruno and I have a limited amount of trekking gear. We could have done a major shopping spree in Pamplona or Bilbao, but we opted to do the walk with what we already owned, as much as possible. This meant packing all our belongings into our tiny day backpacks. It meant sewing up bed sheets as makeshift sleeping bags for the albergues. It meant bringing along our big rain coats and fleece jackets, even if they took up half the space in our bags. The only things we allowed ourselves to buy were a small towel for me (my regular one would have taken up the other half of the bag!) and long plastic ponchos that would cover our bags and legs if it rained heavily (we didn’t have rain pants).

When our bags were packed, they each weighed less than 5kg, I’m sure. Here’s what we brought with us:

• A pair of hiking pants each
• A rain jacket each
• A fleece jacket each
• 3 t-shirts each
• 3 pairs of undies and 3 pairs of socks each
• Warm leggings and a turtleneck for evenings and nights for me
• A towel each
• A makeshift sleeping bag each
• A pair of flip flops for showers and evenings each
• Two pairs of walking shoes each
• A hat each
• 2 1L Nalgene water bottles
• An iPhone
• My journal
• One point-and-shoot camera
• Toiletries, including sunscreen, toothbrush and paste, lotion, shampoo, and floss
• Medical supplies including alcohol, a needle and thread, band aids, cotton, Second Skin, medical tape, aspirin, and an ankle wrap
• Sections of a guide book on the Camino del Norte

Getting packed and ready to become pilgrims!

This is what my pack looked like. Nice and light!

We were packed pretty lightly, and in retrospect it was a good idea. Apart from the first two hours of walking, when I was adjusting to the weight of my bag, my load never bothered me. I could pack and unpack my bag in five minutes. Sure, I had to wash my clothes every evening in the sink and hang them on the back of my bag to dry the next day. And yes, when we bought food at the supermarket we had to carry it in a plastic bag because we had no extra space in our packs. But I had everything I needed (except, maybe, for rain pants).

So, we were packed and ready to head out onto the Way of Santiago! We met up with a couple of Phil and Angie’s friends who live in the hills of Northern Spain. We spent an afternoon getting to know Javi, Jasmine (a Canadian!), and their son Emeric, and getting a tour of their beautiful little farm home. We shared dinner together. And then, Bruno and I slept in our Totoyaya one last night. The next morning, we would start our pilgrimage unlike most: We would leave our vehicle parked at Javi and Jasmine’s, walk the 7km to the nearest town (Ramales de la Victoria), take a 45-minute bus to the coastal town of Laredo, and finally start our Camino de Santiago!

Having tea with Javi and Jasmine on their farm in the hills the day before we become pilgrims.

Our Totoyaya’s parking spot while we walk the Camino de Santiago.

Me with Jasmine, Emeric and Javi. Thanks, guys, for letting us park our vehicle at yours while we were walking!

If money is the first thing people ask us about how we manage to travel full-time, questions about health and safety are almost always next.

What if you get sick? What if your vehicle breaks down in the middle of nowhere? Aren’t you scared of traveling in X country? We are often bombarded with questions about illness, accidents, car troubles, and personal safety while abroad – questions that, honestly, neither of us spend much time worrying about. However, we do understand that, for many, such questions require answers before they willing to embark on a full-time life on the road.

Oh crap, stuck in the mud again…

Here, we will do our best to answer common questions from our own experience and perspective. Our expertise is as two individuals who have spent over thirty years traveling abroad, not as doctors or consular officials. Feel free to take some advice and disregard other tidbits. But, whatever you do, please don’t take our advice as Law – they’re just opinions from two experienced travelers living the dream.

Health

With thirty years of travel under our belts, it would be surprising if our bill of health was totally clean. Between Bruno and me, we’ve had giardiasis, malaria (twice), kidney stones, a major car accident, and salmonella. We’ve experienced countless flues and colds. We’ve visited hospitals and doctors’ offices on every continent.

Yet, as I discussed in my Pink Pangea article, How I Avoid Getting Sick Abroad, contracting exotic illnesses isn’t as easy as you’d think! Though we have a water filter, we often drink tap water. We eat street food, even in India. We swim in questionable waters, including Africa’s bilharzia-infested Great Lakes. Yet we don’t get sick very often. Bruno and I may be reckless by some standards, but the point of my article is that it’s important not to let responsible caution turn into paralyzing paranoia.

Most of the time, I feel THIS good!

Exercising responsible caution means different things to different people. Here are our answers to common health questions:

Do you buy travel health insurance?

Almost always. Over the years, we’ve tried loads of different companies – from AVI Marco Polo (great, but we no longer qualify), IMG (we had a terrible experience), and ACS (haven’t had a claim yet). Neither of us has ever tried World Nomad, the travel insurance often recommended by long-term travelers, as well as Lonely Planet. Their quotes are consistently double the price of the other companies we’ve tried. We’re always able to keep our insurance costs under $50USD/month, even though Bruno is in the “over 50” category now.

It’s definitely worth shopping around before buying, and if you’re European or traveling in Europe, there are some very affordable options a Google search away! I’m currently with MondAssur because it provides me inexpensive coverage within Europe, where I expect to be most of the next year.

I’m definitely happy I had travel insurance here, because I had a concussion AND giardiasis at the same time!

We know a lot of long-term travelers that don’t buy health insurance at all. In certain regions of the world, we agree that paying the occasional cost of health care may be a better alternative than purchasing travel insurance. In Europe and North America, however, we definitely recommend buying yourself some peace of mind!

Do you get vaccinated?

Yes, but rarely. We have vaccination books that keep a record of all the travel-related vaccinations we’ve had. Early in our travels, we received a concoction of different vaccinations, but now we mostly stick with yellow fever. It is the only vaccination that is required when visiting certain countries (check, of course, before you travel) so we’ve had to keep that one up-to-date. I read recently, though, that next year they will start giving oral yellow fever vaccinations, which is useful for us trypanophobes!

Do you take anti-malarial prophylactics?

I took doxycycline when I studied abroad in Senegal for four months because it was required by my university. I felt “off” the entire time. When living in Zimbabwe, I occasionally took a one-time anti-malarial pill (available locally at the clinic) when the family I worked for brought me to a particularly infected region of the country. For the next two years, despite traveling in Southern and Eastern Africa, I refrained from taking prophylactics. Instead, I covered myself with proper clothing at peak mosquito hours and used mosquito repellent or candles if the bugs were particularly bad (a rarity, surprisingly). Avoiding bug bites felt like a safer anti-malarial strategy than taking prophylactics long-term, which has notable side-effects.

In a malaria-infested area like this, I occasionally took one-time prophylactics.

Bruno has never taken anti-malarial prophylactics, despite over twenty years on the road. He has, however, contracted malaria twice, both times in West African countries that are renowned for the risk. He knew the symptoms and so was able to get the care he needed quickly enough to recover without complications. According to him, malaria was bad, but as a healthy man with sufficient financial resources and a ready mode of transportation, he feels that traveling the world without taking prophylactics isn’t an unreasonable risk.

Do you drink tap water and eat street food?

Yes and yes. If the locals drink tap water, and it looks clear, we drink it. Sometimes we let it sit in the sun for several hours for UV treatment if it looked questionable. Nowadays, we do have a Katadyn filter, but we purchased it mostly to remove bad taste from water. We eat whatever street food looks yummy!

We think it’s good to adapt your body to these things – if you’re traveling long-term – because it strengthens your system. I mean, you don’t want to have to brush your teeth with bottled water every day, and you definitely want to get in on street food! You will get sick of course, but you’ll get less sick and less often over time.

CAN’T.NOT.EAT.STREET.FOOD.

What do you do when you get sick?

Ultimately, Bruno and I feel that dealing with health issues on the road is not much different from dealing with them at home. When we catch colds or flus, we relax inside our camping car, drink lots of fluids, use medications stored in our medicine cabinet under our bed, and wait to get better. When we get ill, we contact our travel health insurance companies for advice on what to do and where to seek help. They always have lists of expat-quality care around the world. If we were to be very ill, we’d take a taxi, ask a campsite receptionist, or use the internet to point us in the direction of the nearest hospital.

While the standard of health care isn’t consistent worldwide, it is almost always possible to find a private hospital or doctor’s office with modern equipment and care. And while it feels uncomfortable to be cared for in a language you can’t speak or in an unfamiliar environment, we’re happy to report we’ve never had a traumatizing hospital experience. Rest assured, the necessary resources are available worldwide to help you in case of illness or accident.

It’s no more fun being sick on the road as it is at home, but it’s no worse, either.

Overall, then, our health advice is to prepare for illness abroad, but not to let fear paralyze you from making the decision to live your dream. You WILL get sick at some point. And then you’ll use your resourcefulness to get the care you need.

Safety

Over the years, Bruno and I have done it all. We’ve driven off-road, in deserts, and in the deep dark bush of Africa. We’ve been to Saudi Arabia (where, by the way, I got very sick!), Sudan, and Iran. We’ve spent weeks in Nairobi and Johannesburg. We’ve bush-camped all around the world. I’ve lived in one city under siege and another one in the midst of a monarchy-takeover.

Yet, we’ve never encountered a problem. Sure, we had a close-call with the border officials in Oman, encountered a few strange people here and there, had a few flat tires, and got the vehicle stuck a few times. Each of us has been robbed once. But knock on wood, nothing dire has ever happened to us.

Our run-in with Omani border police. It all turned out ok.

We think people worry more about safety abroad than they need to, especially if that travel is going to happen anywhere outside of North America or Europe. There are a few misconceptions about safety and travel outside the green zone we’d like to clear up.

1. The world is safer than your television tells you. For the past few years, Bruno and I have traveled through Africa and the Middle East, two continents that have a very bad safety rap. Yet our experiences in these regions have been overwhelmingly positive, and we’re so happy we didn’t let the media dictate our views on these regions. We felt so welcome and safe in the Middle East, especially, that I felt inspired to write a thank-you letter to the Arabian Peninsula. It’s funny that I have never felt as vulnerable as when I would walk home late at night while living in my own country’s capital, and that the only time I’ve ever been threatened by someone was in Paris.

Mechanics in many countries are cheap and incredibly resourceful!

2. You can travel overland even if you’re not a mechanic. Car troubles are an inevitable part of overland travel (unless you have a 1988 Toyota Land Cruiser, that is!). Yes, it’s helpful to know a thing or two about engines and suspensions and breaks, but it’s not as imperative as you think. There is always someone there to help. In Africa, we’d stop in seemingly isolated places, and people would pop out from behind bushes and hills within minutes. In the Middle East, whenever we’d get caught in the sand, I could snap my fingers and a group of men would miraculously show up to help us out. In most of the third-world, car mechanics can do wonders with very little material, and they cost a fraction of what a repair in Europe or North America would cost.

3. You can get good emergency medical care in the third world. Ok, I’m not going to lie that calling an ambulance isn’t always as easy as simply dialling 911 and waiting a few minutes. But even in countries without public emergency health care there are private companies that can help in emergencies if you do a little research. Bruno’s only car accident was in Pakistan, and it was a bad one (he should have died). Instead, he woke up in a hospital being overseen by an anonymous local man who’d taken it upon himself to act as a guardian angel for this unfortunate visitor. Because of the care he received, Bruno walked away from the accident with only a few scars.

Help is always on the way!

As with health, it’s a good idea to exercise caution when traveling abroad in order to remain as safe as possible. Here is our quick list of advice to limit safety risks during travel:

1. Do your research before choosing a destination. Visit online forums of people who’ve recently been to the country you’re eyeing. If you’re in a nearby country, talk to other travelers, guesthouse owners, and travel agents. Don’t pay too much heed to official government website warnings – they are unnecessarily cautious.

2. Be reasonable in your destination choices. We didn’t visit Syria this trip, or even the Democratic Republic of Congo. But we did decide to go to Burundi last year (before things got bad again) based on our on-the-ground research. We don’t play daredevil with our destination choices because there are plenty of amazing safe countries to visit.

We felt safe going to Burundi because we did on-the-ground up-to-date research. And it was great!

3. Let someone know where you are. That might be an embassy (you can register with your country’s embassy if you want, though we never do) or it might be your mom (that’s what we do). There are even new GPS technologies you can buy that can send an SOS signal to someone with your exact location.

4. Limit your risks. Avoid going out late at night, sidestep shady parts of town, and limit time in cities (where most safety risks exist). Drink responsibly, or drink in your hotel or campsite. Don’t leave valuables out, and don’t wear too much bling-bling. You get the idea.

5. Listen to your inner-radar. If you’re getting a weird vibe from a person or place, listen to your gut. If the bungee-jump rope you’re tied to looks ratty, untie yourself. Again, you get the idea.

This Omani man may have been weird, but our inner radar told us he was harmless.

6. Recognize that your safety risks abroad are similar to those at home. So, don’t do anything abroad that you wouldn’t do in your own country!

To sum up today’s very long post: most of the health and safety questions we get come down to “What if…?” questions. While it’s valuable to consider the possible scenarios you might find yourself in so that you can mentally prepare your reactions, at the end of the day, throw your “what if” questions out the window. Don’t worry too much – you’ll figure it out when you need to.