Robert P. Hallam, Author

So, it's been a couple of weeks since our last update but the writing is still going strong. Maybe not as fast as we'd like it to and maybe not in the linear order of the story that we're telling, but what're you gonna do? Inspiration comes when it wants, and in whatever fashion it wants. So we just gotta roll with it!

That being said we do have a new outlet for our work.

In case you've been living off the grid, or under a rock, and haven't heard, there's this thing called Amazon, and they have these devices called Kindles, and well, they have a new outlet for authors that let's you publish stories as you go. It's called Kindle Vella and we're taking "The Journey" on its own journey there.

So if you have one of those cool, new, fangled, Kindle thingys, we'd love for you to check it out at the link below. Though we're pretty sure you can check it out even if you don't have one ;)

The Journey | Kindle Vella Life is a journey. Full of ups and downs, joy and sadness, happiness and regret. But every so often something bigger happens, something life-changing, that forces us to stop and look at who we are, and our journey takes a pivotal turn. No one knows what's around that next corner. Maybe we'll see tha...

And we're back, this time with more of Chapter One! There's more posted on my Patreon, so if you if you like what you're reading I'd love for you to check it out and consider subscribing for future updates.

"The Journey" - Chapter One.2 (DRAFT)

He’d been in the Basque country for roughly twelve hours but for some reason, he already felt like he belonged there. Something he hadn't felt in a very long time. He hadn't slept a wink the night before. The excitement. The anticipation. It coursed through his veins. It had started the moment he stepped off the train. After a day filled with numerous miscues, he had still somehow managed to make it here and that was all that had mattered.

It had been a little after 8:30 pm when he had reached 39 rue de la Citadelle, and thankfully the office had still been open. He secured his first stamp, was handed a map of the hike up the mountain, along with a few other miscellaneous papers, and had been directed up the street to find a bed for the night.

Having arrived as late as he had most accommodations had already been full but with a little help from one of the innkeepers he was able to secure a room in a private residence, with all the comforts of home.

Marie was a widow, in her mid-to-late sixties, he surmised, who spoke very little English. That combined with his limited French made for very light conversation. Limited to just the important details. Like “What time would you like breakfast?” and “Tea or coffee?” Three years of high school French evidently hadn’t prepared him for much.

Breakfast had been simple. A baguette, a croissant, some butter and jelly, a small pot of freshly brewed coffee, and for the final touch, a piece of homemade bread pudding. It wasn't as filling as he would have liked, considering today's trek was practically all uphill. There were of course higher passes across the Pyrenees but climbing 4500 feet in just under thirteen miles was going to be no walk in the park, and his body yearned for protein.

He had spotted a small boulangerie on his way up from the train station the previous evening and was confident he would be able to pick up at least a fresh croque-monsieur, which was basically a grilled ham and cheese sandwich, with grated cheese on top baked that had been baked to a crisp. It was a French snack he fell in love with on his first trip to France over fifteen years earlier.

Had it really been that long since the last time he had set foot in the land of the Franks? Time had whisked by. It had a way of doing that. Many things had happened in that span, of course, but narrowed down to its simplest life was a non-stop journey to the grave – as morbid as that sounds - and he was now a few years closer to that end.

One of his closest friends always said “Life’s a journey, not a destination.” But life was finite, at least life on Earth, and what came after that was anyone’s guess. No living person really knew what came after death. Many believe in life after death. Many believe in heaven and hell. But that’s based on faith.

Some people claim to have had afterlife experiences but that’s only anecdotal evidence; it can’t be proven beyond a reasonable doubt. Even his uncle, a retired bishop from the Episcopalian church, who had been clinically dead for fifteen minutes after collapsing on the tennis court, even he hadn’t had an out-of-body experience. His uncle remembered starting to fall before completely blacking out, but his next memory after that was the unnecessary third shock from the defibrillator that, in his own words, hurt like hell.

Many people don’t want to think of life as having a final destination but this part of the journey eventually does end, and some focus on preparing for that end as if it was indelibly etched in their DNA. He himself wasn't a doomsday preparer in any sense of the term but preparing for the future had become part of his life because it had been important to her. Not that that had done any good. Any control he thought he had exerted over their future turned out to be a mirage. The end had come and he hadn’t been prepared. Even now he still loved her. He missed her. As crazy as that sounded; especially after everything that had happened.

He was making a late start according to the widow. Or perhaps she meant he would be arriving late that evening. He wasn't exactly sure. Not that it really mattered, it was only 8:30 am. He still had at least twelve hours of daylight left which ought to be more than enough time to cross the mountain. Even with the lack of protein running through his veins, his body was raring to go. He kindly thanked the widow for her hospitality and headed towards the boulangerie.

The bakery was just a five-minute walk back towards the train station and within no time he had two sandwiches, a raisin danish, and a French baguette. More than adequate, he supposed, to make it through the day. He secured his food and started heading back towards la rue de la Citadelle, or so he believed.

The streets were suddenly unfamiliar; almost like he hadn’t just walked this route the night before. Last night though, there had been others heading towards town so he had just followed the crowd. Now everything looked different in the morning light, and he was alone. It was amazing he had even found his way back to the bakery this morning in the first place, and after five more minutes of aimless wandering, he couldn’t even find his way back there again.

But his spirits were too high to bring him down. Martin Sheen went the wrong way his first day, even though that was just a movie, and he would find his way too. Even if he had to wait for the next group to arrive to St. Jean by train. So he decided to stop meandering, sat down on a nearby stone wall, and pulled out one of his sandwiches. It was still warm. As he took the first bite he knew it wouldn’t do anything to help him find his way back to the trail but it would certainly satisfy his stomach’s protein craving.

Get more from Robert P. Hallam on Patreon Aspiring Writer and Modern Journeyman

For anyone that hasn't yet checked out my Patreon, I thought I'd share some more of "The Journey" with you. Here's the first half of Chapter One!

"The Journey" - Chapter One.1 (DRAFT)

They lay together. Bodies intertwined. Breathing heavily. Their hearts beating in unison; something they often did when they made love. They had climaxed together as well, something that rarely happened with anyone else. With her though, it was normal. Natural. Even the very first time they slept together, in that small windowless hotel room near the clothing market. Calling it a room was an exaggeration, though. Sure, there was a bed, but it would’ve barely passed for a broom closet back home. Who knows, it may have originally started out as one. But even that first night, as they shared the most intimate of intimacies, they had peaked in concert; their bodies so in tune with one another.

At one point though, long after he had moved here to be with her, he asked her if she had been doing it on purpose. Pretending for his benefit. The question wasn’t far-fetched. Everyone faked it at some point, for one reason or another. She even told him when they were dating that she never enjoyed s*x before. Not that he believed her. Everyone likes s*x, and her appetite was nothing short of insatiable. She always wanted more and he was always willing to oblige. It didn't hurt that he enjoyed pleasuring her just as much as she enjoyed it.

So as shocked as she was when he had asked her about it, her answer was, no. She never pretended. She always came. Even multiple times on occasion; not that he believed that either. Something he could discern, though, was that sometimes she held back, and acted as if she wasn't ready to burst, so he wouldn't finish before she wanted him to. That was Lili. She liked to be in control.

As their heartbeats began to slow, he untangled himself as gently as he could. She was already asleep again and he didn't want to wake her. It made no difference that she was the one who had awakened him. Most mornings started exactly the same way. Lili was who she was, and she liked it in the morning.

Unfortunately, as easy as it was for her to fall back to sleep afterward, he was the exact opposite. Once he was awake, he was awake; sleep eluded him. So, there was no use in even trying. She wore a shy smile as she slept, and he could think of nowhere else he'd rather be than right here. Right now. In this moment.

After successfully unraveling himself from their human pretzel he stood up and pulled on his underwear. He then walked the few paces it took to reach the sliding glass door to their balcony. The view from the thirteenth floor was unlike any he'd had living in Los Angeles, except for perhaps the smog. Thirty, forty, even fifty-story skyscrapers filled the skyline as far as the eye could see. The majority of which were residential, at least in their neighborhood.

Shanghai was the biggest city he had ever lived in, even visited for that matter. He hadn't realized just how big it was until he’d Google'd it. The population was nearly twenty-four million, which somehow made LA’s four million seem like a small town.

Much of Shanghai’s population lived in apartments like the one he shared with Lili. Which was less of an apartment and more like the suite he lived in his freshman year of college. This particular suite had five private rooms - all of which were currently occupied – along with a shared kitchen, a common dining area, and a common bathroom.

Affluent families from around China would buy high-rise apartments initially designed as single-family residences, and redesign the interiors so that they could rent out the individual rooms. It was a very common living arrangement in Shanghai though not entirely legal. Signs and banners displayed everywhere throughout their own complex made proclamations to that effect. But evidently, money spoke louder than the postings. They'd been living there almost four years now.

Their room also had two features for which he had been willing to pay just a little extra; the balcony and an ensuite bathroom. It was worth the additional dollar a day for the bathroom alone. The balcony was gravy.

As he peered out over the railing he could see the city beginning to wake. The aroma of street food wafted its way right up to his nostrils. He loved Chinese street food. It wasn't the most nutritious thing in the world but it was cheap. And Lili loved it just as much as he did.

Lili usually bought breakfast, but today he decided not to disturb her. Besides he knew what they both liked and even though his pu tong hua was limited he had become quite adept at smiling and pointing.

* * *

The breakfast lu, as he had become used to calling it – lu being Mandarin for street – was a cavalcade of sights, sounds, and predominantly smells. All of which could be either good or bad depending on the day; sometimes both at the same time.

Although there were dozens of food vendors there wasn’t much in terms of variety. Each vendor had their specialty, but there were always at least five vendors with the exact same specialty. So when it was his turn to shop for breakfast he liked to try different stands just to see if there was any discernible difference.

His favorite breakfast item was baozi; steamed buns packed with a variety of different fillings. Lili often referred to them as plastic bread, because after being steamed the small round buns had an outer sheen that appeared as though they had been wrapped in a very thin film of plastic wrap.

His two favorite bao were the la rou bao - which was spicy meat - and the lai wong bao - a sweet egg custard. Lili's, of course, were cai bao - which were filled with vegetables and tofu. What was it with girls and vegetables, anyway? He never understood that. The more meat the merrier. That was his motto.

She also enjoyed a pan-fried flatbread with a chopped green vegetable mixed into the dough. He could never remember the name of it, but that’s where smiling and pointing came in handy.

Lili also always returned with two cups of warm soy milk, or as she liked to call it, yellow bean soup. It was her favorite thing to drink. At breakfast. At lunch. At dinner. Whenever and wherever she could get it. He didn’t have a taste for the milky, mustard-yellow concoction unless there was lots of sugar in it but her love for it was equivalent to his love of fresh milk; something he rarely bought in Shanghai as it cost twice as much as it did back home, and three to four times as much as the more readily available UHT milk that was sold in every store.

As he began to make his rounds he came across a stand that he had never seen before. He watched as a woman, standing in front of what looked like a round metal trash can flipped upside down, poured a ladle full of thin milky battery onto its flat black surface. She then quickly evened out the liquid with her ladle as steam bubbled up from beneath it. If not for the surroundings, and the turned-over trash can, he could’ve been watching a French crepe being made on the streets of Paris.

She next traded the ladle for a long flat spatula. As the edges of the Chinese crepe began to brown she carefully slid the spatula underneath and flopped it over onto its back. She then gently patted it causing more steam to escape.

Next, she dipped the spatula into a tub of reddish brown paste, drew some out, and spread it quickly and evenly on top of the thin pancake. She continued by cracking a whole egg and dropping its contents right on top, swirling it around to break up the yolk, and then sprinkling everything with a finely chopped herb that looked similar to cilantro. Finally, she added some pieces of a long thin deep-fried dough, reminiscent of fried pork rinds, and finished by folding it all up into a nice neat rectangle and sliding it into a paper sleeve.

She handed the finished product, which slightly resembled a rectangular quesadilla, to a woman standing beside her and then she turned to him.

He just smiled and pointed.

Get more from Robert P. Hallam on Patreon Aspiring Writer and Modern Journeyman

So, anyone that knows me from the Camino knows that one of my dreams has always been to open my own albergue someday. It's been one of my goals since my very first walk. I've spoken with people on nearly every walk since 2012 that have realized that dream or goal, in Spain, in Portugal, and in France. I have even stayed with some of them on multiple occasions.

Wherever the Camino runs there is a need for pilgrim accommodation and some of the best ones I've stayed at are run by pilgrims themselves. It only makes sense. Pilgrims know what pilgrims want; what pilgrims need. Like that first beer after walking all day. To the hot shower after that beer. To that second beer after you're finally clean... yes, beer is a big part of the Camino... perhaps second only to the walking itself. Rest assured my albergue will have it 🍺🍺🍺

The second dream I have - that fewer knew about until now - is "The Journey". It has been, and continues to be, a labor of love. The words don't always flow the way I'd like them too. The motivation to write doesn't always flow the way I'd like it to. Just like walking doesn't always flow the way I'd like it to when I'm on the Camino. But just like the walking Camino you don't stop when things get hard.

You persevere.

I'm not sure how long "The Journey" will take to complete, and I have no idea when I'll be on the Camino helping other pilgrims for more that just two or three months every summer, but I will persevere, and I know I will get there someday.

In the meantime, if you want to keep up on "The Journey" check out my Patreon. I'll be posting drafts there as they are written. I hope to see you there!

Buen Camino!



patreon.com/robertphallam

So my editor at the moment (my mom 😘) mentioned she couldn't follow the link so,... let's try this again!

"The Journey", is currently a work in progress, since as we all know life can get in the way of… life, sometimes. I hope that through writing it not only can I share my journey with you but it can also become a vehicle in helping me to secure an albergue on the Camino de Santiago.

After walking more than 10,000 miles on the Camino through parts of five different countries over the past decade, I know that’s where I should be; on the Camino, helping others with wherever their journeys lead them.

I have posted the prologue here, in a separate post, and you can currently read the first few chapters for free through Patreon (linked below) and soon through Kindle Vella (to be linked soon). If you like what you read please consider donating or subscribing through either platform, as well as sharing “The Journey” with anyone else you think might enjoy it. Of course, if you don’t like what you read, I still want to thank you for taking the time to look 😉

Thanks! and… Buen Camino!

Get more from Robert P. Hallam on Patreon Aspiring Writer and Modern Journeyman

I know it says "Robert P. Hallam, Author" maybe it should say aspiring author, who knows? Anyway, here are the first 2500 words of the aforementioned book.

"The Journey" - Prologue (DRAFT)

It was dark and chilly outside but he was warm enough. In fact, he was quite comfortable under the three blankets he found in that old wooden cabinet. So, why was he awake? He was exhausted. He'd been exhausted for days. Weeks even, and many months before that. When had life become this aching, exhausting, meaningless chore? That was why he came here, at least that was one of the reasons, anyway; to figure out where his life had gone wrong and then try to set it right.

The first morning he was, as they say, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. The first night he’d gotten more sleep than he'd had in years. But it all started going downhill after that. The muscle aches. The blisters. The grinding under his kneecaps. The pain in his right ankle that still hadn’t subsided. And the constant throbbing in his left shoulder. The shoulder he had broken in three places six weeks earlier.

Slowly they had all revealed themselves and he suspected that they weren't going away anytime soon. His pace had also slowed considerably thanks in no small part to the most recent setback with his right ankle. He didn't have time for this, not if he was going to reach the Atlantic by mid-July.

Right now the journey wasn’t anything like the romantic vision that had imprinted itself on his brain - the one that had been ingrained there five months earlier on his final flight home from southeast Asia. The images he had seen on that six-by-eight-inch screen had become a part of him. The mountains. The trees. The rolling hills. The golden fields of wheat that were dotted with the bright red petals of poppies. But whether it was what he had envisioned or not, he was here; following in the footsteps of so many others. Each one of them making their way for their own reasons, but all sharing a common goal; with many suffering much more than he was. Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually.

The journey took so much from everyone, perhaps more than most had to give. He wondered how much more of himself he would leave behind before it was all over. He'd already left so much, and he didn’t know how much more he had to give. He hadn't planned for this.

He had trained physically for the walk, and even that hadn't been enough, but he hadn’t been prepared for the rest. He understood the historical significance of the road he was on but that wasn't his reason for coming here. Yet somewhere along the way something had embraced him. It didn't care why he had come here, or what he expected to find along the way, and it certainly wasn't letting go. With each step, its grasp only tightened.

As he rolled over onto his side, hoping to find a position that would lead him back to the dream world, he glimpsed the warm light glowing outside, through the worn wooden shutters. Day was waking up and it was almost time for him to do the same. Most of the beds around him were already empty, and he could see shadows creeping eerily in the dim light. He knew it was only a matter of time before one of the more inconsiderate shadows would flood the room with light; assuming everyone was already up. Or wanted to be.

Had he not been awake for the last hour already that action might blow his fuse. One which was considerably shorter now than it had been three weeks ago. Back then everybody was new. They didn’t know any better at that point. But by now even the most oblivious of them should have seen him, at least once, throw back his blanket, march defiantly towards the light switch, and bring the darkness back for those who were still hoping for just a few more precious moments of rest before facing a new day.

Long gone were the lazy mornings of summer he used to live for. Where on a normal day he would rise at the crack of noon. Rested. Content. Ready to face the best part of the day without the aches and pains that had manifested themselves each and every morning here. How long had it been? The first day not withstanding, he honestly couldn't remember the last time he had just slept. Deep. Dreaming. Relaxed. And he had tried many things.

Over the counter. Under the counter. Where there was no counter. In liquid form. Pills. In combination. Some of them had helped him get to sleep faster, and some had made the experience of falling asleep more enjoyable. But none of them had given him the rest his body and his mind truly longed for.

Even enjoying the physical comforts of the opposite s*x, hadn’t helped. Though he’d certainly tried it enough. They did keep coming back, however, and for that he was grateful. That release was the only thing that even came close to what he needed; what he thought he needed, anyway.

There was still a lingering hope that the long, exhausting days would lead to nights of uninterrupted sleep. They just hadn't. His best guess was that wasn't going to change anytime soon either, no matter what he tried. The best he could do was accept his situation and continue the search for the true reason he had traveled halfway around the globe.

Had he told anyone of his plans before he left home most of them probably would have thought he was out of his mind. Maybe he was. There was plenty of crazy running through his head. Not like other people were that much different either. Everyone has their own crazy, perhaps even more so in those that refuse to admit it. But that crazy doesn't make everyone insane. It just makes them human. And anyone who would deny that is only fooling themselves.

He had only told three people that he was coming here. His best friend, his brother, and his mother, and even to them he explained very little. He had been convinced that no matter what he said, no matter what words he used, he wouldn’t have been able to adequately express his motivation for traveling six thousand miles just to go for a walk. He already had enough trouble trying to explain that to his brain, and as each day lingered into the next it was all he could do each day just to coax his body to continue moving.

Walking had become an imposition. But when had it come to that? Yesterday? Last week? He honestly couldn't remember when that feeling had taken hold. There were so many instances when it could have dug its roots in. So many things that could have contributed. Not that it mattered. It was what it was. And no matter how he felt today, tomorrow, or even next week, he wasn’t leaving anytime soon. He needed to accept that.

The shadows he had been watching dance in the darkness suddenly began to take form as light began to flicker from above, accompanied by the unmistakable hum of fluorescence coming to life.

She was already up and had been for quite some time by the look of things. She moved quietly, as she placed the last of her things into her red and black pack. If there was one thing that had brought him any comfort the past two days it was the sight of that bag. A whole week had passed since he had last seen her. “I want to walk alone for a while,” she had told him. “I hope you understand.”

F**k no, he didn't understand. What the hell happened? What had he done? But what choice did he have? He didn't have to understand it, he only had to accept it. Even though they were both walking the same path their journeys were uniquely their own. And no matter how hard it was for him to understand that, he needed to respect it nonetheless, and it had been hard. Somehow, though, they ended up running into each other again. Which was turning out to be par for the course.

People came and went without explanation, and sometimes when they left, they left for good. Like the French gentleman that he’d met on day two. They had walked together for almost three hours. Then when the Frenchman needed to stop and take a break, he continued walking. That was the last time he’d seen Henri. A name he only remembered because of his middle school French class. On the first day of class Miss Chalmers had given everyone a French name and his best friend at the time, Doug, had become Henri for one hour every day. Doug hated that name with a passion for the next three years.

The meetings and partings were two of the things about the journey so far that mimicked life. It wasn’t always welcome but it wasn’t always bad either, it’s just the way it was. The big difference was that it all happened so quickly here. After three hours of walking with Henri, he had already considered them friends.

He had seen her the very first day, as they climbed the mountain. They had regularly shared the typical greeting whenever their paths crossed but it wasn’t until a week later while sitting on a bench outside of the huge sardine can that the town of Najera called a hostel, that they had shared more than four words. He had come to think of that hostel as a sardine can, not just because of its rectangular shape, or because it was entirely constructed of aluminum, but also because of how they had somehow managed to stuff 90 beds into it.

He had been finishing up his breakfast when she had come up and sat down beside him. Normally first meetings were amiable in nature. A polite hello followed by a “Where are you from?” or “Where did you start?” or “Why are you here?” But not her. The first line out of her mouth was punctuated by “gimp boy.”

Oddly enough she was the first American girl he had met. He had talked to people from all over the world that first week. Germany. Belgium. Holland. France. Italy. Australia. Korea. He had met a few Americans too, but all of them had been male. Maya was the closest he had come to meeting an American. She was from Canada, and even that was pushing it. She wasn’t what he would’ve considered your average Canadian. She'd been born in France, currently lived in Saudi Arabia, spoke six languages, taught English to children, and was marrying a Muslim man in just over a month. And he had learned all of that within fifteen minutes of meeting her at dinner, the very first night.

That was another common thing here, the openness. There was this incessant urge to just tell everyone everything; their lives, their dreams, their goals, literally...everything. It reminded him of the first week of college. When everyone stood in line to get books, or their student IDs, or as they attempted to find an empty seat in the dining hall, nearly everyone had something in common; everyone was alone but no one wanted to be. So being the social creatures that humans are conversations spontaneously erupted. Even those who had previously been wallflowers peeled themselves off their perennial walls. He himself had made more small talk during that first week of college than he had ever made in his entire life before that.

Thankfully he hadn't lost that skill in the decade and a half that had passed since freshman year. He was a little out of practice, mind you, but the more people he met the easier it had become. It had also helped that many of them were just as anxious as he had been, so if anything, that alone had helped to break the ice. With her though, it hadn't been awkward at all. It was normal, natural. There was just something about her, a certain je ne sais quois.

Yes, he had also found her attractive, and it would've been a lie to say that her appearance hadn't caused him to stop and stare the first time he had laid eyes on her. But the minute they had started interacting, something changed. The physical attraction remained, of course. He was only human. But there was something else, something...more. He couldn't explain it, and he had wondered if she felt it too.

He often had trouble reading the opposite s*x when it came to emotional matters. Not attraction, mind you. Approaching. Engaging in conversation. Flirting. These things were very familiar. Some small talk. A few light touches during conversation, on the arm, the shoulder, the waist, maybe the small of the back, and he was usually on his way. Either back to her apartment, or onto the next challenge. But when actual feelings were involved, as opposed to animal urges, he was often confounded.

He had initially greeted her just as he would any other girl. With a warm smile, or a slight smirk, with his head slightly tilted to the side. He couldn't recall exactly. But as soon as the conversation had started he knew this was going to be different. She was different, and that had taken him off guard.

“Good morning,” she mouthed in silence.

How long had he been staring? He smiled at her weakly and blinked his eyes in reply; unable to disguise the fact that he was exhausted. Acknowledging him with a smile of her own she hoisted her pack up onto her shoulders and turned to leave. He let his eyes linger on her as she walked towards the door. Then abruptly she turned back.

He quickly diverted his eyes, feeling foolish that she might have noticed him staring...again. Who was he kidding, of course, she had. But her expression betrayed nothing as she walked back towards his bunk. She slipped her hand into the hip-belt pouch on the right side of her pack and pulled out a small Ziploc bag.

“Breakfast,” she mouthed as she placed the bag at the foot of his bed. She then pulled a banana out of the other side and placed it right on top.

Even in his current state of agony he couldn’t help but laugh. “Thank you,” he whispered.

She replied with a quick wink and then headed back towards the door again. He let his gaze follow her all the way to the door before he finally closed his eyes again, hoping for just one more minute of rest.