Camino Day 6: Feeling Pretty
Updates from walking the Camino de Santiago
Got one of the best compliments the other day. The owner of a restaurant along the Camino asked me how many times I’d walked it. When I told him it was my first time, he was surprised. He said it was because even this early in the journey my backpack was so light. I’ve been obsessing over trimming my pack weight for weeks, so I was super flattered. He’s done the Camino over seven times, so he knows what he’s talking about!
In case you missed it: I’ll be sharing updates from the Camino de Santiago, covering everything from the joyful to the painful, the random to the meaningful. As someone who cares deeply about holistic health, loves being outside, and can overthink a pair of socks, I’ll be paying close attention to the food, the physical challenge, and the inner shifts that come with walking across a country.
Day 3-6
Kilometers Walked
Day 3: 32.2 km, from Larrasoaña to Uterga
Day 4: 28.7 km, from Uterga to Estella
Day 5: 29.1 km, from Estella to Torres del Río
Day 6: 32.7 km, from Torres del Río to Navarrete
Total so far: 173.8 km (108 miles), from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to Navarrete
Favorite Fuel
Still loving bananas, but I’ve added a new favorite: a gluten-free, dairy-free cookie I’ve found at a few cafés. Whenever I spot them, I grab one (or three). They’re from a Spanish brand called Milola and they’re so good!
State of My Pack
I’ve shed a few things: merino wool socks, sock liners, a shawl. I left them in a clothing recycle bin, and don’t miss them at all. I did pick up a portable charging block and a longer charging cord. The cord is a bit of a regret. It lights up and changes colors like I’m hosting a rave in the hostel. I try to muffle the glow under my bag and clothes so I don’t keep everyone (including myself) awake. Why didn’t I read the box?? I was just so focused on the length.
Deep Thoughts
A few days ago, Agatha1 took pictures of me. It was fun. I felt beautiful. The kind of beautiful where you’re not just posing, but being. At one point, she looked at me and asked, “What does it feel like to know you’re pretty?”
I went quiet.
English isn’t her first language (she speaks French and Mandarin fluently), but it wasn’t the language that stumped me. It was the question. I think she saw how at ease I was being photographed and read it as certainty about being pretty.
She kept going. “I know I’m not. I know that growing up, classmates, teachers, friends, adults must have called you pretty.”
I told her it’s complicated. Growing up, I felt pretty, sometimes, but I didn’t feel desired. And that absence weighed on me. I told her that in America, people really like white skin and yellow hair. I have neither. (“Yellow hair”—I got that from Tina Fey’s Bossypants.2 She points out how we say “blond”, but everyone else? It’s black, brown, red, gray, white. So I say “yellow” when I remember to. A small rebellion.)
What does it feel like to know you’re pretty?
I think what caught me most off guard is that she asked the exact thing I’d wondered a couple years ago, except flipped. I remember thinking: What does it feel like to move through the world and not hear from peers, strangers, or family that you’re pretty?
That thought embarrassed me. I didn’t want to admit I’d equated prettiness with worth and acceptance.
I used to think being pretty and wanted were the same thing. That being pretty meant getting the attention, the excitement, the glance across a room. But I didn’t just want to be seen. I wanted to be approved of. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized it isn’t about someone else deciding you’re pretty. It’s about claiming it for yourself. Feeling it in your own skin. It’s a charge. An aliveness.
That’s what’s changed. I’ve started to feel pretty not because someone told me so, but because I feel alive in my own presence. Being photographed by Agatha, I wasn’t just showing up to be looked at. I was part of something being made. I was the center. Not for someone else’s fantasy, but for my own sense of self.
And maybe because I feel that now, I can finally admit how much I used to chase it. For too long, being pretty has meant fretting that a cut might scar, scrutinizing every new blemish or crease on my forehead. As if one “flaw” could cancel out the whole picture. I was scared of slipping out of range.
I used to think pretty was about being pleasing. Now I think it’s about being in it—in your body, in the moment, in the frame. And that’s where I’ve been.
Photos!
Buen camino! More from the trail soon!
—Rebecca Grace
Name has been changed.
In Bossypants, Tina Fey writes, “Let’s talk about the hair. Why do I call it ‘yellow’ hair and not “blond” hair? Because I’m pretty sure everybody calls my hair ‘brown.’ When I read fairy tales to my daughter I always change the word “blond” to ‘yellow,’ because I don’t want her to think that blond hair is somehow better.”