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…

Dear God, thank you for letting me happen upon this small church, so I might rest my anguished feet. This little church, alongside the Camino, somewhere in the far flung regions of rural Spain. A place where I can kneel and pray in solitude. 

I’m alone in this ornate Catholic chapel, save for one elderly nun who is watching me from the back of the room, giving me plenty of space for prayer.

I wonder if this nun knows how hard it is for a guy like me to concentrate and pray. 

When I was a little boy, praying was always a challenging endeavor. Namely, because my ADD-riddled adolescent mind liked to wander into various places, into unrelated fantasy scenarios, some of which involved cowboys, or pirates, or women in swimsuits made entirely of dental floss, and pretty soon I’d lose track of what I was thinking about. Kind of like I’m doing right now. 

In many ways, Lord, I am like Peter, who couldn’t even watch and pray one hour with you. And I

bet I could deny you, too.

We have been walking the Camino de Santiago for a long time now. I don’t even remember when we started. It seems like 600 years ago we set out. I don’t even remember why we’re out here.

We have been away from our own country for more than a month, we have 260-some kilometers left to walk on a distant dirt path through nowhere. 

I am tired, I am weary, and it feels as though angry, soccer-playing toddlers have been kicking my shins all month long. Over the last few days, my steps have all been painful, and whenever we stop walking, I cry when no one can see me.

I don’t cry because of the pain, God. The pain…

Leòn Cathedral is among the greatest of human works in Gothic style. The church features one of the world’s largest collections of medieval stained glass windows.

Right now, the bells are ringing, calling the people to service. You can hear the bells toll across the city on this rainy morning.

I am wearing my waterproof, trotting across the town square, just in time for mass.

Church is full. There are no pews available. I stand in the rear of the ornate sanctuary alongside other pilgrims, our 100-pound backpacks snugly fitted on our shoulders.

Daylight shines through a stone Gothic frame of 130 individual stained glass windows, illuminating the heads of all congregants with a rainbow spectrum of medieval colors.

Mass is conducted in Spanish. Although I speak Spanish, I am only able to understand a total of three words.

Meantime, I am looking at the stained glass. In one window, I see 12 bearded men, wearing bathrobes and Birkenstocks. I assume I am looking at a depiction of

the apostles, although they could be Dead Heads on their way to San Francisco.

It hurts to stand. I am currently nursing a spasmed calf muscle. It is only a cramp, but it has slowed me down. I am now walking with a slight limp, lingering behind the troop.

Other pilgrims have been passing me on the Camino, they all see the telltale athletic tape on my calf and ask in concerned voices, “Estas bien?”

“Bien, bien,” I always reply with a self-effacing laugh. But deep inside I am embarrassed. Because I feel like a dork. Limping along. One painful kilometer at a time.

I look around the cathedral at my fellow pilgrims. There are many teenage hikers in the congregation. They are brimming with adolescent energy,…

Q: How many weeks until you are finished walking the Camino de Santiago?

A: Too many. 

Q: I am confused why anyone would feel the need to walk 500 miles. Is this Camino a religious experience for you? 

A: Depends on what you mean by “religious.”

Q: Are you doing this for God?

A: No. For me. 

Q: So what are YOU expecting to receive out of all this? 

A: I expect nothing. 

Q: Then why do it?

A: I travel to Santiago to pay respects to the bones of James, one of Jesus’s closest earthly friends, first apostle to be killed in the name of a cultural belief system I was raised in.

Q: You don’t ACTUALLY believe Santiago contains the actual bones of Saint James, do you?

A: Then, I travel to Santiago to pay my respects to some random guy’s bones.

Q: Doesn’t this make you feel pretty stupid?

A: No. I always feel stupid.

Q: Why walk this path? Aren’t you basically just another annoying American tourist?

A: Pretty much.

Even so, mankind has been walking this same pathway since this road was an ancient Roman trade route. Throughout history, millions of humans walked this route when they needed a miracle. It was their last and only hope. I follow—literally—in their footsteps. 

Q: You’re writing these dispatches too often! Shame on you! I want to pull my hair out each time you write and say to you, “This is your life! Put your damn phone away or you’ll miss the experience of living!” You should be taking a break from your technology, not writing this! 

A: Pot, meet Kettle. 

Q: How are you writing these 800-word columns/dispatches…