Artazu and Puente La Reina

Navarra is breathtaking; lush hills and valleys, villages and churches built with ancient stone, a distinctive Roman bridge, wind turbines, and the requisite Basque aupa in response to hola! While we just arrived from Logroño yesterday, I’m astounded by how much there is to see just outside Pamplona. I read Navarra leads Europe in the use of renewable energy and Spain in education.

We spent yesterday night near Artazu, a village on the Arga river. The air was much warmer than the night before, and we opened the back door of the van to take advantage of our new two burner camping stove.

The next morning we walked a loop around our camping spot next to a small ermita meeting some Sunday cyclists on the way back. We did our daily cleaning (hand broom, vacuum, shake dog bed, etc.) and took off. A few kilometers away is Puente La Reina. It’s the meeting point of the camino francés and camino aragonés and there are guest houses and restaurants catered towards pilgrims.

We stopped at Casa Martija mostly to charge the MacBook but enjoyed a delicious vegetarian torta de txantxigorri with a coffee. As we walked through the town, signs of the massive national huelga feminista were everywhere. It is amazing to see how much feminism permeates even small towns.

Finding a good camping spot can be tricky some days. We try heading down a bumpy road only for it to lead nowhere. Or we rely too much on coordinates found on a van camping app and it ends up being underwhelming.

But other times, we find those gems through no doing of our own; empty patches next to rivers tucked away, or a dirt road winding up into farmland outside the city. We’ve learned a lot camping through California to Oklahoma and with the van in Andalusia. One things keeps resonating with us; don’t force anything.

On our way back from the afternoon’s walk, we were treated to grandeur.

The Reformation Within Myself Will Not Be Televised

Note: This is the first time I’ve written anything about me and Islam and shared it. I am hesitant to write this even now, mostly because I’m scatterbrained and a terrible writer. I linked to blog posts from others who are more knowledgeable in certain topics to keep this short. You might not know I’m Muslim. Or you might consider me too recent a convert, not informed enough. It should be obvious, but these are just my thoughts and I speak for myself. In some stricter circles, it might be considered inappropriate to do so without having some type of qualification. I don’t speak Arabic and I wasn’t raised in a Muslim household. But these are blessings and my reality. I am a Muslim by choice. I have unique perspective and a voice. As the Qur’an commands of us, we must come to know one another [49:13]. Here is a part of me.

Sometimes, I have the feeling I’ve lived two separate lifetimes. In some way, I have. It started when I woke up one morning after the doctors pulled a tube out of my throat in the ICU. That tube helped me breathe while my body and a drug cocktail dealt with inflamed membranes in my spine and brain, poisoned blood, and renal failure. It was a year after high school and I was hospitalized with meningococcemia. Before then, I was a very average teenager in the suburban sprawl of the San Gabriel Valley playing in a band, hanging out with friends, and going to shows. I lived in my bubble. But after that morning, something changed. I no longer desired to stay close to home and play video games on my free time. I wanted to use my brain. I needed to see and feel all life.

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