Unicorns on the Hærvejen

It was Day 8 or so on our Authentic Pilgrims On The Hærvejen trip.  We had just finished our humble lunch of strawberries and cheese in the hamlet of Vrads, lured by signs of meditation centers and organic butter.  With our bellies full and no available houses to rent in this community of artists and Masser oven builders, we decided to push on.

We walked past a young Dane shooting a longbow in a field and I waved.  He pretended not to notice us even though we were wearing the outfits which would have perfectly complimented his sport.  Never mind that though, soon we were upon the Meditation Center and started talking excitedly about the possibilities of retreats.

Cars whizzed passed us, people on bicycles stared or smiled or both, it was a typical day on our 300km trek.

UNTIL.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, across the road and in the forest, I saw it.  I could not believe my eyes and went crashing across the tarmac, hauling Tobias along with me to document the clear PROOF.

I felt like the Jane Goodall of mythological creatures.  The documentary would be called, *Myths In The Mist*

It was everything I could do to maintain professional objectivity, but in the end, I think you will all agree that I composed myself quite well in the face of this monumental discovery.

Standing there silently, not 5 meters from me, trying to disguise himself as a tree stump, was the Mystical Unicorn.

Let your eyes show you what your heart cannot comprehend.

Oh the majesty.

Cast of Characters

It's time to get to know some of the characters of The Begining of El Camino...get in a cozy chair and walk backwards in time down the Camino with me to Logrono...city of cafe's and pinchos and narrow streets.  Also, Papi Chulo, Alessea, Ulrik, David, and Ima, who had already left for home when this photo was taken.  

Papi Chulo was a doctor from Italy.  He carried a backpack that was more of a portable pharmacy than ruksack and wore all red, all the time.  PC was fond of showing us hand signs that meant, "You asshole, your wife is sleeping with another man."  He could also drink any of us under the table with a smile on his face, which is probably why he has that knowing and whimsical look in this photo.

Alessea was his long suffering and extremely tall, daughter.  She loved the equality of everyone on the Camino and was always prepared to let Papi Chulo indulge in his childlike wanderlust and demanding desires.  Her usual facial expression was one of bemused tolerance. She called her father Eduardo. She loved her job as an HR manager and general over-lordess and you could tell that everyone liked her right back.

David, the caballero sin caballo, never knew what he wanted if he could have anything and was fond of calling me 'una mystica'.  He loved Cataluna with all the passion his heart could muster and would spend hours talking about Barca and football with Ulrik. David was full of witty spanish one liners like, "Chulo chulo, mi pidulo" which roughly means, "Cool, cool, my dick."  

He and Ima were our fearless guides and translators for the first week until they and PC and Alessea had to leave at the end of Semana Santa.  David would occasionally wear his boxers on his head in the Albergues and liked to run marathons, but thought he was out of shape.

He loved Ulrik and Ulrik loved him. They were like a pair of best dog buddies who you knew would rip up chickens together and run to the ends of the earth howling with glee.

Ulrik, whom you have met before, Danish folk singer and attache from day 2 in Zubiri, was clearly not from this planet.  He was fond of playing his tiny guitarlele and gazing dreamily and lovingly at whatever his eyes beheld.  Though from Roskilde, he spoke English like an American and had a passionate adoration of the clawhammer banjo,  Hank Williams III, whom he called Hank III, and teaching me swear words in Danish like, "Run for fuck's sake, bitch".  He would move his mouth very slowly and precisely to show me how to say hard Danish words like Rød, and never acted like he was 22.  

He also developed a strange and troubling skin affliction on his hands that lasted the entire Camino.  He took cortisone from Papi Chulo, rubbed iodine on them, tried benadryl and anything else people might suggest.  No one knew he had chillblains until a couple days before the end of the trail.  He refused to see a doctor right up to the end.  He may have been from Jupiter.

And then there was Ima, mother to all and eternally young beauty.  At 37, all she had to do really, was just smile and make us all fall in love with her a little more. However, she never rested on her youthful laurels.  She was fond of making sure we were all ok, seeing the sights, and telling stories about our lives.  She lived in Tortossa and was a teacher who travelled the world in the summers, visiting places like Nepal and Africa. She communicated in the universal language of love.  Full stop.

There was Hanne the Dane whom everyone called Hannah Montana, and I met her in a herd of Danes one morning on the way out of Larrasoana.  She could walk faster than anyone I met and was on her second Camino.  Hanne had just started opening to the universe and magic and energy and moving with initiative through the world instead of always reacting.  She was probably half wood nymph and even though we only had a few hours on the trail together, she was one who lingered in the heart long after.  It wasn't until Santiago that I saw her again, but since coming to Denmark, we have corresponded and seen each other several times, so the story continues long after the walking stopped.  Hanne trains for triathalons, but I didn't know that then.







Then there were Max and Sana, two Germans who were walking for reasons I still don't entirely know.  I only know that Max was a fuzzy bear and Sana, a tomboy princess.  Together, they were like a walking fairy tale where the world doesn't know that they are royalty and only discovers it in the end, after trials and tribulations that they undergo with grace.  The last day in Santiago, I was wishing I could see them again.  I turned a corner and there they were, standing in front of a shop.  They told me I was the one person they hoped to see before they left the Camino and we have been in touch several times since.  They live in Lubeck, which is only 300km from Aarhus.  We will definitely see them on scene again. Max is the tall guy and Sana, the girl on the right.





Thus began the first week of Camino.  May it live a thousand years.

Writing makes you rich

It is exciting to think about making loads of money by writing away on a Danish sailboat or in international coffee shops.  Since I am now essentially living my lifelong dream, I figured it wouldn't hurt to check out the financial realties too.

Today I decided to do some research on just how much money I have made as the author of Theobroma Gypsies.  From online sales mind you, since the ones at the launch don't really count...actually. Yes, we better count that.  

I was very encouraged initially because there are two used copies selling for more than a brand new copy on amazon.  http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/offer-listing/0557658268/ref=sr_1_cc_1_olp?s=aps&ie=UTF8&qid=1339590050&sr=1-1-catcorr&condition=used

Also, Barnes and Noble is apparently hocking the e-book for 8.99, which is about 6 dollars more expensive than buying from lulu.com

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/theobroma-gypsies-jaime-mathis/1030375965?ean=9781257342891&cm_mmc=AFFILIATES-_-Linkshare-_-TYYL2aZFZn0-_-15%3a9781257342891&

VS..

http://www.lulu.com/shop/jaime-mathis/theobroma-gypsies-a-legacy-of-chocolate/ebook/product-17465977.html

Now maybe lulu isn't as fancy as B and N but upon closer investigation, I discovered that I make more selling a copy for 2.75 than I do selling it in a 'reputable' place like B and N for 8.99.  Welcome to the idiosyncratic world of 'legitimate' publishing.  

I crunched the numbers and presto! 50 dollars. Yes. Oh baby yes.  Riches! Glory! 

That's without the launch sales. After overhead I walked with about 150.00 in my pocket.  

200 dollars I have made. As. An. Author.  Since 2010.  Hm.

So I decided to convert it to Kroner.  1,185 DKK.  That's over HALF the cost of my first month of Danish classes! I've made enough money writing my book to pay for a basic ability to ask where you are from and tell you I ate your banana in Danish! 

Invincible? A distinct possibility.

Watch out readers of the world.  You will know my name and read me. Now everyone, hurry up and go buy my book from lulu so I can make enough money to learn how to save a Danish child from a burning building!

http://www.lulu.com/shop/jaime-mathis/theobroma-gypsies-a-legacy-of-chocolate/paperback/product-12481544.html

My boy Hans C

Today is in honor of my departed homie Hans Christian Andersen.

Ol' HC was da bomb because he liked to make tiny rocking chairs out of paper and give them to kids.

He kept it real by taking a length of rope with him everywhere so he could climb out a window to safety if his hotel burned down.

Hans C was from the hood, no joke, of Odense. This is pure ghetto, yo.  His mom was good for nothing and likely a whore. He said so in one of his fairy tales.

I'd like to give a shout out to tall dudes like Hans with crazy imaginations and a propensity for falling in love with opera singers and already engaged women.  He knew a honey when he saw one, even if they were unavailable.  And the brotha had style.  He could DRESS and he made sure the shutter caught him lookin' fly.

So RAISE da ROOF for HCA, who wrote more fairy tales, acted in more plays, travelled the world more, and was more afraid of the comittment of buying a bed than anyone I ever knew.

You are my BOY H Christian A. I know you believe in unicorns and that shit smells simultaneously. For this I am happy.

A retrospective

This was moments before I boarded the plane to Amsterdam and then on to Barcelona to begin my camino journey.  I had just talked to my sister Summer on the phone to get some perspective and ground myself in love.

There was no doubt in my mind that this was exactly where I was supposed to be.

The world was waiting for me to step into its wider arms and co-create inspiration for next steps.

Come on world, breathe in with me.

I had no idea how it was going to play out, who I would meet, where I would land, what inspiration would look like.

Inspiration is not a static concept, but I did not know that in this photo.

And suddenly, I\m in Barcelona, breathing Gaudi for the first time.  Hearing Catalan.

Riding bikes around the city to the sound of revolution over high unemployment rates and plummeting salaries.

Meeting middle-aged Pakastani men who sell me non functioning phones and try to entice me to be a lodger in their dodgy "backpacker hostels".

I'm conversing with women who have travelled the world and dance like dervishes and never seem to age. (She is 50)

The sun is pink and crimson on its descent behind the sea.

I have no idea what my next step is beyond getting to Pamplona and then on to St. Jean Pied du Port, but for right NOW, everything is engraving my eyes with glyphs that sway like palms and taste like gingerbread on my imagination.

This is me at the very begining.  

The first stamp on the credencial, no idea of what may lie on the path in front of me...all I can see is ponies and mountains, seashells and prayers for magic to unfold in waves.

Somehow time froze and shattered and played out. I found myself in love.


And then love became the inspiration, lifting my feet, filling my glass, opening my voice.

Slowly, I began to rise into each day, uncurling my heart, and reaching towards all of the yes and share and friend and communion.




I kept saying 'poco a poco'.  All I needed was one step and the wind and the rain and eyes that looked with length instead of fire.

And the way continued to unfold.  Inspiration became a daily exercise of waking and walking and submitting to the quiet companionship of earth and souls seeking understanding.

The Wandering Association

When I met Asgar on the Camino, he was lamenting the fact that he joined The Wandering Association AFTER purchasing all his outdoor gear, which would have saved him ten percent.

All I heard was, "I joined The Wandering Association". WHAT.  Denmark has an association for people who flan about?!?  I want to be that. In that. On that.

So, I've been wandering alot lately, around my new town, discovering nooks and crannies and falling in love with Aarhus more everyday.  Here's what we have.

Hos Sofie's Foraeldre-a badass tea house with lemon cake and comfy chairs and Danish ladies who knit and ostemsibly gossip up a storm. So far, I know for a fact that they are talking about cream, what people are called, and the number fourteen. My Danish is THAT good.

If I were a spy, this information could be the secret location of an underground nuclear plant, so I am paying close attention whilst stuffing my face with delicious pasteries.

The Mohammed Drawings cartoonist and newspaper that printed them-Jyllands-Posten.  Because of this, Aarhus gets several terrorist threats every year and people hear about it on the radio. This is hardcore.

And they make bombs in the ghetto. Apparently the police are pretty good and figuring out who's doing what before they do it, so nothing ever really blows up.








The Rainbow Panorama-I haven't been yet, but I'm obsessed now, thanks to Rodney, my friend from New Zealand, who casually brought it up in a chat today. It's a huge rainbow circle on top of the Kunstmuseum  that you can walk around and just feel complete in. It's a rainbow hamster wheel for PEOPLE!!!  LOOK AT IT.

Also a place that sells THESE. I have no idea what they are, but they have horses on them and are painted. They are probably a traditional Danish accessory that grace the doorways of every old house and ward off the evil power of trolls.


I love not knowing stuff about why and what things are...

Smorgasboard

Today we explore the glories of new potatoes from a magical island in Sweden and how you can make them look like cake.  We also will look at what the doctor gave me and what I bought afterwards to celebrate.  Finally, I will tell you some of the Danish words I learned today, in no particular order.

Let's begin.

It turns out that there is a Brigadoon for potatoes.  Peter, our merchant navy boat neighbor, brought a sack of them back from the sailclub's annual dancefest, boozeathon they have on this island every year...and gave some to us! They were dug that VERY DAY from the earth and this makes them like starchy carb gold.

I, however, did not know this until I was scrubbing them in a bucket the NEXT day, fantasizing about making potato salmon pancakes garnished with basil grown in our own greenhouse.  Tobias confided in me in hushed tones that my idea was sort of sacreligious, but we are grown ups, so we continued dumping cream and salt and pepper and garlic and onions and salmon into the mashed goodness.  This is what we came up with.  Tobi's colleagues said it looked like cake. Strawberry cake.  All I know is that I ate three helpings and licked the bowl out.

Then there was the visit to the doctor, which is suprisingly complicated if you are not a CPR card carrying member of the Danish medical borg.  I won't tell why I went to the doctor but I will promise a free signed copy of my book if anyone can figure out why I went based on the photo of the product you see here.

Let me just say, Danish doctors are remarkably efficient and do not waste time dirtying laundry that they are just going to pull off in short order. The take-away line from the visit, "Ok, I'm just going to insert this instrument and look around."  Alright. Sure. Go ahead. Let me know how it goes.

After this, I had an epiphany that really, nigger baller is actually now being called flode baller. Cream balls. That's not quite as racist as the old name, but it's still good, don't you think?

Apparently I have been unconsciously obsessing over ebelskivver, or however you spell this Danish treat, because the second I saw something written in the bakery that visually resembled what my ears hear everytime someone says ebelskivver, I pounced and purchased.   Sadly, Ebel and Aeble are not the same thing. The latter is apple, which is ok because I am also fond of apples.  For a minute I thought, "How fabulous that ebelskivver has apples in it!"  I quickly realized my folly.  Apple cinnamon pound cake is not the same.

That said, I decided that today was also the day I begin to take Danish super seriously. I'm going to LEARN this language and so, I began furiously googling classes in Aarhus.  I ended up on a website with links to free online Danish courses.  Very serious courses that teach you how to say things like "beard" and "fetus". Also, "bridegroom".

It is possible that I randomly chose the "How To Get Your Danish Citizenship Through Shotgun Weddings" website, but I'm positive that it will come in handy somehow.

I think that's about enough Danish excitement for one afternoon, but the evening is young and I can hear the call of young potatoes singing out over the wind....