Everyone calls it something different. The Camino has many different names. The Germans out here call it “Jakobsweg.” The French call it the “La Chemin de St. Jacques de Compostelle.” The Chinese we’ve met say “Cháoshèng zhě zhī lù,” which means “Pilgrims Path.” 

The South Koreans call it “Santiago Gill.” The Ukrainians call it “Camino Podolico.” We Americans, who speak fluent Roy Rogers, cannot help but refer to it simply as “The Trail.” Which is why many of us Americanos say “Happy Trails” to each other, despite the ribbing we receive from sophisticated Europeans who neither understand why we say these words, nor why we giggle after we say them. 

Either way. My wife and I have walked this path for a long time. We have been out of our own country, living in sweaty albergues, municipal hostels, b.o.-scented dormitories, and the occasional bedbug-fumigated bunkhouse for one month and a half. 

We have been hiking The Way for most of this time. For five of those weeks, the Camino de Santiago has been our only home. 

The cohort of

international pilgrims has been our only community. We are a family. eat together, sleep together, cry together, go to the bathroom together. We walk together. We shower in the same foul stalls. 

We share everything. Food. Clothing. Water. Toiletries, phone chargers, nail clippers, antiinflamatorios, music. We bandage each other’s blisters. We loan each other Euros for cafés. We share pocketknives, boot laces, and even—this actually happens—sports bras. 

We even share sickness. Currently, a lot of the pilgrims are sick with what is being termed “Camino Flu.” The virus has been making the rounds, hopping from albergue to albergue. It’s an intense, quick-moving head cold. But everyone gets a turn experiencing it. 

When…

A few random things I have written in my journal throughout my time walking the Camino de Santiago. 

— Humility is the natural, resting state of creation. Pride is man-made. 

—Good sleep is worth more than good money. 

—Your schedule doesn’t actually exist in spacetime. If you don’t believe this, try telling your schedule to a cat. 

—You’re stronger than you realize, but not nearly as tough as you think. 

—If it’s true that people’s opinions are like rear anatomical orifices, then it is also true that the advice they offer is similar to the output of the aforementioned bodily cavity.

—In some cultures, it is considered dignified, admirable, and even beautiful for a grown man to cry. 

—The most important thing in life is to make life important. 

—Walk more. 

—You will never realize the meaning of “daily bread” until you don’t have any. 

—Hapiness can be doubled, tripled, quadrupled, quintupled, and infinitely multiplied, if you give it away. 

—Pain can be halved if you share it. 

—If ever you’re confused, just remember, so is everyone else. 

—You can’t do everything you thought you could. Neither can your wife. 

—Slow down. 

—Eat cheesecake. 

—Weep as often as you are able. Enjoy every tear, especially the bitter ones. Tears are a gift. 

—You have no idea how today will turn out, so pay no attention to your first impression of the day. 

—Tomorrow has no mistakes in it. 

—Find a beautiful place in nature every day, and sit there for a while. Even if this place is only in your mind. 

—Water is good. 

—If you’re going to stop and smell the flowers—and you definitely should—prepare to…

I walked 10 hours and 42 minutes just to surprise her in Portomarin, Spain. I entered town at dusk, limping, dehydrated, breathless, leaning on a walking stick. Her first words were, “And you STILL can’t fold the

laundry when I ask?”

I’m afraid that’s all the energy I have to write today. 

—Sean

I am standing at a bus stop in the unrelenting rain. Although to call this a “bus stop” is being generous. It’s just a highway guardrail. I am alone on this empty highway, waiting to catch a ride out of O Cebreiro. 

O Cebreiro is a tiny, prehistoric village, entirely made of stone and thatch, with a Pigeon Forge vibe. The gift shops and pubs operate a thriving trade, selling pilgrim essentials like trinkets, walking sticks, handkerchiefs, seashells, and probably even monogrammed toilet paper. 

This is rural Galicia. The mountains in the distance are brilliant green, rising like swells in a foggy ocean. These are not the beer-commercial Rockies, nor the ski-brochure Alps. These are distinctly Spanish mountains. You can just tell. 

I don’t know why I’m in such a good mood. But I am. It’s raining and cold. I should be angry, or bitter that my wife is somewhere out there, hiking deep within those hermosas mountains, walking the Camino without me, as I limp through Spain on shin-splinted calves. 

But I’m maybe happier than I’ve ever been. I have hiked the Camino for a solid month, I left a huge piece of myself on the trail, and this is enough. 

And now I am bumming around the Iberian Peninsula with nowhere to be, no schedule to worship, and no one to appease but my Maker. I hop from village to village, playing my fiddle in taverns. The locals give me free cervezas until I quit playing or fall off the stool. 

I’ve met throngs of injured pilgrims, like myself, who have battered, bloody feet. I carry many bandages in my backpack, bandages I’ll never use, so I’ve been handling a lot of sweaty feet lately, treating blisters and wrapping the infected sores of my fellow pilgrims. Some French lady nicknamed me “le medic…

The town is small. Postage-stamp small. The village of Ambasmestas is nestled within the Galician mountains like a Spanish fairytale. Rock-paved streets, ancient buildings, crowing roosters. 

It is raining. I sit on a bench, reading a book, waiting for my hotel to open in another five hours. I am sopping wet. Even my socks are wet. 

Somewhere in the distant mountains, my wife is hiking the Camino. I should be with her, but I am here with shin-splinted legs and swollen calves. 

But somehow, I am in a great mood. Somehow. I feel marvelous, reading my book in the rain. Because my personal Camino is, for the most part, finished. I now have the distinct pleasure of bumming around Spain, without a schedule, gaily drinking cervezas with locals, playing my American fiddle in taverns where no inglés is spoken, and they give you free beer if you have shin splints. 

I could think of worse places to be. 

Across the street is a stone church. The doors are open. These doors represent the

only open doors in the village. 

I trot across the muddy street, squishing in my boots, wincing in pain with each step, carrying my backpack and fiddle. 

I have been following the Camino via taxi the last three days. Today, my taxi driver, God love him, did not like Americans. He charges Americans three times more than people from other countries. 

Yesterday, for example, I took a taxi with a French woman. The driver assumed I was French, so he charged me 15 Euros. This morning, however, I told the driver I was from Alabama, his demeanor changed. He drove less than five miles and charged me 55 Euros. 

When I paid, I smiled and said in Spanish, “This is a little expensive, no?” His reply was—I’m not…

My taxi arrived at Ponferrada after a long, twisty, pleasant ride through the mountains. And by “pleasant” I mean that only one of three taxi passengers actually vomited. I paid our driver, then found a nearby bush where I could double over.

I limped along cobbled streets toward my bus stop. A young woman pilgrim joined me. 

Her name was Marie, from Virginia. And when she learned I was American we both got excited. Namely, because English is at a premium out here. And nobody can properly mutilate English like we from the Southern US. 

I asked what was wrong with my friend’s leg. She looked like she was going to cry. 

“I think I have a sprained ankle,” she said. 

Marie is 19, this is the first time she has ever been away from home. Her mother did not want her doing something so “foolish” as “gallivanting” on the Camino. But Marie did it anyway. She said she is here for guidance and clarity. Marie’s father died two years ago from

pancreatic cancer, she has felt lost ever since. 

Together, Marie and I found a bar-slash-café where we could get out of the rain and wait for our bus. We had hours to kill, and I needed to get off my shin-splinted legs, which were throbbing like the bass track to a top-40 disco hit. 

I looked into the distant mountains. My wife was somewhere out there, walking the Camino without me. The previous night, my wife and I decided I would skip the next few Camino stages; she would walk for us both until my legs heal. That is IF—big “if”—they ever heal. Until then, I will taxi to meet her at each stop. 

The café was warm. Talk radio was playing. And although the…

Morningtime. 

My wife and I parted in the lobby of the albergue. She was crying. It was a little-girl cry. The kind of crying you do when you don’t care who is watching you. She has never been self-conscious about her own emotions. Thank God nobody ever told this beautiful woman that it’s not dignified to cry in public. 

All the pilgrims were buzzing around us, gawking at the weeping woman. They were getting ready for their day on the Camino as white fog hung over distant peaks and summits, hovering atop the green mountainsides like Aladdin’s carpet. 

The lobby was alive with energy. Pilgrims were unpacking and repacking their backpacks. Stuffing belongings into tiny drybags, then shoving these bags into slightly larger drybags, then, finally, cramming these bags into backpacks. They laced their boots. They refilled water bottles. 

Meanwhile, my wife and I stood at the door, saying farewell. 

My taxi had just arrived and was waiting on me. We said goodbye with an immersive American hug. A full-body embrace. 

You

can say whatever you want about Americans, and you’d probably be right about us. Still, despite our political vitriol; despite our exploded sense of self-entitlement; despite our self-congratulatory demeanor; despite our classical ineptness within other countries; we are huggers. 

We Americans hug one another for every conceivable occasion, including the onset of daylight saving time. We slap backs. We press our hearts together. We hold each other long and hard. 

Jamie held me tight and wept into my ear. We have walked 350 miles together, through peaks and valleys. We traversed river basins, crossed miles of flowering canola fields, did our laundry in the sink at random albergues. We crossed the Pyrenees together. 

But my legs were unable to endure a moment more. I tried for as long as…

I bought this hat in my dad’s hometown, many years ago. It has always been my favorite hat. For years, it’s been my constant reminder of his beautiful and tragic life. Today, after walking 336

miles on the Camino de Santiago, I left it at the foot of a very big cross.

I don’t feel much like writing today.

My morning began at 7:12 a.m. My eyes opened beneath a quilt-work of eye boogers. My head, still on its pillow. 

My eyes first caught the sight of a rosary, lying on my nightstand. The rosary was given to me by a nun, a few villages back. The rosary bears a hieroglyphic-like symbol on it. I have no idea what this symbol means. 

The first thing I heard upon arising was a choir of human noise. This is the Camino de Santiago. The symphony of morning sounds within a Camino hostel or albergue is a concert of shuffling, thumping, squealing, thrumming, ticking, flopping, and multiple conversations, simultaneously taking place, in 7,000 international languages. 

A soprano section of backpack zippers. A tenor section of rubber soles, squeaking like the boys’ basketball team on a gymnasium floor. A bass section of bodily orifices, clearing themselves in the form of nose blowing, throat purging, sniffing, spitting, sneezing, coughing, grunting, moaning, and of course, explosive flatulence. 

I spent the morning fiddling. I was sitting in bed. Icing both legs. Playing

my fiddle with a mute attached to the bridge. My wife was still sleeping. Her tan is deeper brown than most pilgrims. Her unspoken Creek ancestry is showing. 

Medical professionals recommended two days' rest for my wife’s idiot husband inasmuch as his calves look like water balloons. I told my wife to keep walking the Camino without me. I would catch up eventually—even if I had to take a bus. 

She told me to, quote, “Go to hell.” Unquote. 

So we have become fixtures in Rabanal Del Camino, a town with barely enough residents to form a baseball team. 

Each morning, the village empties itself of pilgrims, and the cobbled streets are empty and there is nothing to do but fiddle. 

This is…

We limped into Rabanal Del Camino on three legs. I was holding Jamie for support as we ascended the inclined street into an isolated Spanish village with a population of 60 residents. 

The rock-paved hill which led into town felt much like the summit of Denali. My wounded calves were akin to Popeye’s forearms. Each mincing stride I took, small and careful, was accompanied by the same grimace Stallone wore during the final scenes of “Rocky II.” 

Other pilgrims were gawking, watching me gimp through town like I had Plague. 

Injury can end one’s Camino endeavor. So most pilgrims are naturally terrified of injury, and would prefer not to think about it at all. Thus, if you happen to be injured, other pilgrims hesitate to look at you as you limp by, shielding their eyes, scurrying away quickly before they catch your stupid. 

Rest assured, I’ve seldom felt so stupid. 

Moreover, we had been trying to find a place to stay in this rural pueblito since I could not walk any farther. And sadly, there were no available rooms. 

Which was nothing new. Throughout our Camino, hostels and albergues are always full. Every night, it’s the same. Joseph and Mary enter the village astride their donkey, and there is no room at the inn. Although in this particular story, I felt less like Joseph and more like the ass. 

As we staggered into the terracotta-roofed town, bathed in sepia afternoon sunlight, a car pulled alongside us. 

The vehicle window rolled down. The woman driving the car was smiling at me. 

“Are you Sean?” the driver asked. 

You could have knocked me over with an ibuprofen tablet. 

The driver is an American writer named Kim, who lives in this village. It turned out Kim knew who…