Along the Camino last summer I met a handful of pilgrims who'd started their pilgrimmages in Paris (or even further back, in Holland.) When I first started walking and everything hurt and 800km seemed impossibly far, I thought they were crazy. But once I started to run out of road, I realized that maybe they'd had the right idea.

That walk started as a dare to myself; something I was never really sure I'd be able to finish. After all, I don't really like things that are hard, being outdoors, walking, or St. James. But it called to me. I knew it would be a challenge, an achievement, something I'd remember for the rest of my life. And dreams of sunny Spain got me through what was by all accounts a miserable winter. But I don't think I ever realized how important it would be to me.

Which is why when I saw this familiar yellow arrow while I was out for a walk on the weekend, my feet got a little itchy. There are a few on my way to school, and every morning, at least for a second, I considering cutting class to walk to the end of the world again.