Servus!

Leaving Aix-la-Chapelle along St James' Street (Jakobsweg, in German), it took less than two hours of walking - uphill through the 'three-country' nature park, to reach Belgium by foot. In the forest with a light dusting of snow, the only way to know that the international border was crossed was the change in the trailmarker color - red scallop shells in Belgium compared with blue in Germany a few dozen paces later, my location was confirmed by the disruptive 'beep-beep' of my cellphone announcing a new service provider.

Crosses, crucifixes, and other small monument line the trails. I saw one dedicated to pilgrims to Santiago. Votive candles with protective glass cases flickered in the cold mist. There was no sense of solitude - joggers, horseback riders, foresters, and elderly strollers were never far away. 'Buon Camino' said by some who saw my scallop shell; 'Servus' said by others - the general mountain greeting expressed in Germanized Latin.

Already it's clear. In comparison to my pilgrimage last winter to Rome - not nearly as popular a pilgrim destination as Santiago - I have the sense that I'm viewed as an economic opportunity by those lucky enough to have shops along the well-marked trail to Spain. The path to Rome is not marked. I ought to do what I can to get off the marked trails in order to avoid being a marketing target.

Just Right

A scallop shell embedded in the stone wall of the St John Baptistry at the gate to the Cathedral in Aix-la-Chapelle marked my starting point. After taking a turn around the inside, seeing the opulent gold casket containing Charlemagne's 1,200-year-old remains, I was standing there gawking at a map to find my way to the Franciscan Convent for the night... I didn't even know the scallop shell was there until a German foursome of Christmas Market revellers saw the scallop shell hanging from my backpack and made the connection. They raised their heavy mugs of Gluewein to me and went on their way.

As I finished a watercolor of the building wall, a giant Austrailian couple came by looking for the shell to take a photo. For an instant I thought they might be pilgrims, too, but their packs told me they wouldn't be walking to Spain over the winter: hers seemed big enough to house a family of four quite comfortably; they could invite all their friends for Thanksgiving dinner in his. The three backpacks sitting side-by-side on the bench looked comical. The woman patted mine like it was a lap dog. 'Ooh, how absolutely adorable', she squealed. I'm fully satisfied with my pack - all 16 pounds of it.

Shortly afterwards, I was buzzed into the convent courtyard and was greeted by a gnome-like nun. She asked me to wait until she was done distributing bread to poor families. When she returned, she saw me sling my pack over my shoulder. 'That rucksack is too heavy to be carried to Saint Jacques de Compostelle', she tsk-tsked me. Too big for some; too small for others: I think it's just right.