Bellevue WA 2025 – Let’s Begin Here

If ever there was a photo that captured my essence as a 40-year-old, it would be this photo. By my side is my companion, my best friend and husband whose knowledge of taking great (straight) photos rivals my own. There happens to be a random Nepalese kid in the background, who I only remember because he automatically assumed I spoke Nepali and jabbered at me rapid fire. I loved him immediately and was halfway through adoption plans before my personal interpreter sat down and sent him off for lemon sodas.

To begin in Bellevue is to cut out a great many things. Things that are important – grand stories, arguments, embarrassments, hurts – but ultimately are extraneous to the plot. The situations that evolved to get here are wild and worthy of air-time. They will be expounded upon at a later date, and with great edits, because some of my readers would be traumatized by the uncut versions.

We live 1200 miles away from my closest family. We live about 7000 miles from Sarvesh’s family. I spend a lot of time on TikTok, watching snippets of political nonsense that make me want to claw my eyes out.

I desire a little piece of the world (to myself) – where I dictate the terms – so that people can read all kinds of things and not be suffocated by the chaos and grime of this hellscape we currently occupy. Like, think about how things used to be when you were raising your kids or playing street hockey or just after you got married. That’s what I am evoking. A few minutes of peace.

My few minutes of peace are scattered over time itself; the minutes after Robert was born, when Sarvesh asked me to marry him, climbing in the trees behind Señor Gonzalez’ house, my Dad dropping me off in his police car in first grade, and sitting here, in my home in Bellevue, knowing that even if everything in the world falls to pieces, it would be enough that I ended up here.

On the first day of the camino de Santiago de Compostela, which I shall here forth (ever forth) call “The Camino,” I walked nearly straight uphill for 1 million miles.

It was actually 8 kilometers – in hell. It turned out to be roughly five miles, which most people walk on a typical day. The uphill part is true, though. What a climb. It was early June, and I lack the knowledge of what typical weather is like in the Pyrenees at that time of year, but it was warm. I remember warmth. Sweat abounded.

The hills leading out of Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port are quaint. Many homes have picket fences, chickens roam at will, and there are cats hiding in all sorts of shady spots. I am sure the cats must get up to mischief with the chickens, but all the chicken parades I saw that day were brought up by elder ladies, who like myself, come from a line of sturdy women, and would not be troubled even by a gaggle of kitties. They had strong shooing limbs.

We walked endlessly. As it was our first day on the 790-kilometer trek, we left the hostel absurdly late. I want to say it was 10 AM, and while I was with my Mom and Sister, I don’t believe we ever left that late again. If one had surveyed the party, they would have seen my Mother, enjoying each flower and chicken and cool bug in the back of the line, and my sister, holding up the middle, attempting to walk halfway between us, occasionally trying to corral the party into one group, and me (!), charging ahead, at full steam, with only drive and the destination in mind.

My pack weighed about 25 kilograms. I had everything I thought we might ever use in it. Medical supplies, extra clothes, snacks, water, bedsheets, emergency blanket, etc., etc. And that day? A sandwich.

I was 32 when we walked the camino. At this time, my lesser vehicle was driving, but I had recently developed the notion that I wasn’t getting out of this birth for a long time and had better try to enjoy the ride. However, I was still exhibiting many tendencies that made it hard to get along with me. One of those tendencies was a bullheadedness that rendered me blind to the needs of those around me. So I was ahead, beyond the point where I could see my sister and Mother. My first place lead was fortuitous in that I could be as demonstrative as needed to relieve my discomfort.

Breathing was hard. Every time I passed a bend in the road or a gate, I was sure there would be a break in the grade. I had trained for this, damnit! How many hundreds of times did I force myself up the trails near my home in preparation of climbing hills? I took pride in telling people that my usual route was the height of 100 flights of stairs . I had a golden bum.

But this was pulverizing any golden parts of me. I was halfway bent over more than not, kind of shuffling up the hill, reminiscent of the fentanyl addicts around Seattle. It was brutal. I am pretty sure three groups of Germans asked me if I was okay.

Finally, finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I waited until all blondes (some Swedes were also on scene) had cleared my vision and crashed to the ground. A bag of chips sat crushed in the pack; a flavor I have never seen in the US. Poulet Roti? It was a chicken flavored chip. Unremarkable.

For several minutes, I sat alongside the path, a heap of sweat. I have always loved swimming, and nothing would have been better in that moment than to pull off my sweaty, smelly clothes and jump into the nearest crick. Alas, I was almost in the mountains. Yes. I was still in the hills. Still in France. I had not even made it to Spain.

Once I had regained enough sense to eat, I pulled out a paper bag with a slightly indented, plastic wrapped sandwich that somehow was a little warm. I unwrapped it and hid the plastic in my bag. In the paper bag, in my pack. I didn’t think there were bears in the Pyrenees but suddenly I was concerned where my Mom and sister lingered.

My teeth sank into the soft bread, breaking through a layer of crust that had the perfect amount of abrasion. Through the layer of egg studded with green chilies slathered in some kind of aioli. My eyes went slack, like the minute before I nod off to sleep. The green chilies tasted like the anaheim variety; vegetable, grassy, like roasted olive oil and garlic. Later I found out that they are Guernica chilies.

I sat, stupified. Sweat rolled down my face. The sun beat into me as though I was a carpet being cleaned of dirt. Why had I stopped here, in full sun? It didn’t matter. My hat was SPF-proof, and I am only ever afraid of my face and head getting skin cancer. Particularly my head, because my Grandpa, although he was a remarkably progressive man, never told me he felt pain until he had skin cancer spots on his head.

Moving to a shady place didn’t occur to me. The sandwich was that good. I chewed, and chewed, and as the sandwich diminished, I mentally compiled possible ingredients to recreate the recipe. Sadness overtook me as I finished. So often do we wish the pleasure to expand rather than cherish the scant moments we encounter.

The rest of the story is rather funny, given how tired I felt.

Melissa came around a bend in the path at that moment. She crashed down too, and I seem to remember that she also had the sandwich and commented on its eliteness. We laughed and joked and heckled each other most of the way; although many people consider the pilgrimage an act of repentance, I remember laughing so hard I had to sit down. It tracks. God would have wanted me to find some brevity at that time in my life.

We made it to the next hostel in an hour or two; there were more hills. Many more hills. When we got there, we became increasingly concerned about our Mother’s location. As Melissa had stayed with her during most of the walk, I was tasked with finding her and bringing her to our location. So back down the path I skipped, much lighter without my gear. I found Mom about 2 kilometers back; I believe she was looking at a Mother Mary statue I had (of course) missed. I relieved her of her pack and back up we trudged. Once we were three, we sat down outside at a wooden table and drank beer – with one of the Germans who witnessed my struggle earlier in the day.