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…

It was our first day off. 

We had been walking the Camino for three weeks, upwards of 18 miles per day, until our feet bear a striking resemblance to USDA-approved ground chuck. 

Each day, awaking before dawn. Each day, suiting up in hiking gear. Each day, strapping on heavy backpacks, rain ponchos, mummifying our bodies in blister bandages, slathering on handfuls of SPF-100, painting our feet with obscene amounts of petroleum jelly to prevent chafing.

Each day, wearing binding money belts beneath our clothing, sporting large sun hats, and donning high-tech footwear which costs more than a late-model Volkswagen. We move through Spain dressed like Batman. 

Three weeks.

Twenty-one days ago, our families and friends back home were excited for us to walk the Camino. During the initial stages of our hike, they were actually kind of interested. So, we were texting them important updates and photos every day. (“Just look at THIS croissant!”)

But now everyone back home could give a rip about our croissants. They don’t want any more

updates, they don’t want any more selfies in livestock pastures. They are tired of it all. 

And frankly, we are pretty tired too. Which is why when we arrived in León, we rented an Airbnb. 

It was an apartment, downtown. A much needed departure from our normal albergues and hostales. A break from communal living with other sweaty pilgrims. A break from the nightly bunk rooms, ravaged by non-stop gaseous expulsions. And, most importantly, a break from the albergue restrooms where we have all witnessed gastrointestinal horrors committed by pilgrims who, tragically, were never taught to properly use toilet paper. 

So our Airbnb apartment felt like walking into the White House. We were overcome with awe. Our own bed! Our own kitchen! Wait! We have an OVEN?! Oh…

He was a blind man, walking the highway toward El Burgo Ranero. If he wasn’t totally blind, the sunglasses meant he was low vision. Cars shot past him as he trudged along, seemingly unaware of the vehicles.

The old man walked bent at the waist, carrying a wooden walking stick. He was shuffling forward slowly on the old Spanish road, wearing a neon safety vest. He was using his stick to tap the ground, running his cane along the edge of the pavement for surety.

Another car sped by.

This car, faster than the others. I could feel the draft from the vehicle’s forward motion. It was enough to knock a person down. There are no posted speed limits on this highway. Each passing motorist drives like a proverbial bat out of Gatlinburg.

And still the man walked forward.

It had been one of those days when I didn’t feel like walking. My mood had dropped. I was thinking about certain problems in my life, and it was getting me down. Sometimes I

think too much about the past.

The silence of the Camino was weighing on me. My godforsaken backpack was weighing even heavier on my shoulders, like an overgrown toddler. My joints hurt. I was low on sleep.

Some days you walk the Camino; some days the Camino walks all over you.

My wife was half a mile ahead, walking with her friend and superhuman speed-walking Australian, Tracey. They were a long way ahead, in the distance, giving me space.

I could see both females ahead, gesticulating as they talked, flailing their hands about, like tiny animatronic silhouettes on the horizon. Whatever they were talking about, by the velocity of their hand movements, their conversation looked internationally important.

Tracey is our new friend and my…

DEAR SEAN: 

I don’t get why you’re doing the Camino. Can you explain why you feel it’s necessary to torture yourself for spiritual reasons? It all sounds like Catholic self-flagellation, very medieval to me. Pointless. 

DEAR FRIEND: 

You make a good point. 

When you’re out here on the Camino de Santiago, God knows, you’re tired of walking. Tired of moving your feet. You’re not tired physically. Your body feels okay, mostly, except for the fact that everything—even the gray matter of your brain—feels like it has been drop kicked by a 19-year-old NFL draftee. 

You’re tired mentally. You don’t WANT to walk. You are no longer excited by the idea of walking. Walking does nothing to thrill you, spiritually. 

At one time, walking was a beautiful act. A way of connecting you with your fellow human being. With nature. With life. But now walking is an offensive concept. Walking is a dirty word. 

Walking is this thing you do because you HAVE to. Because you signed up for this. It is almost like you are in

the military now. Except you’re not a marine; you are not serving your country. You’re paying good money to do this crap. 

You are in the wilds of far-flung rural Spain, walking by your own choosing. So there is no one to blame for your situation but yourself. 

Your mornings start EARLY. You have no choice because your albergue du jour has a checkout time of 7:30 a.m. and you must evacuate the premises immediately so that an overworked, middle-aged, moderately depressed, Spanish man carrying a backpack vacuum canister can fumigate the entire bunk room for bedbugs, lice, and flatulent fumes, all of which you still carry on your person, within the very fibers of your clothing, so that you may re-experience these…

A bar, somewhere in rural Spain. 

A rooster is crowing near the open door. Distant goats are bleating. Spanish farmers gather to chew the morning fat. 

There is a television in the corner of the bar, broadcasting the morning noticias. Beneath the television set is a lineup of heavy backpacks, belonging to pilgrims, loaded with the weight of the world, alongside a forest of telescopic hiking poles. 

A few old farmers at the bar are speaking rapid-fire Spanish, drinking tall beers with their morning croissants and breakfast cheesecake. 

These rural Europeans live too loosely, free from American evangelical rules, drinking beer with breakfast, wolfing down cheesecake at sunup, smoking cigars without remorse, napping away their precious afternoon hours. How sad to think of the multitudes in this beautiful country who have gone to their graves and never knew there was a hell. 

“Dime,” the bartender says to me. 

I order a cafè with milk. 

I am awaiting my coffee while watching the TV. The newscaster is talking about Spain’s nationwide power outage. 

Everyone in the bar is very interested in this newscast because this update affects us personally. We are pilgrims in a distant country. We are dependent on the kindness of each other. We are a family out here. 

Also, we have already heard horror stories about pilgrims who were stranded in bigger cities during the recent power outage. 

One young pilgrim in León slept on the street during the blackout. Other pilgrims found him, shivering against an alley wall. The high-school-age pilgrims joined him, all sleeping in a huddle to keep warm. 

Another large group of pilgrims were stuck on a train for an entire day. They had no food, so they all met together in the dining car and pooled their food…

We are walking the Camino de Santiago when the power goes out in Spain.

At first, we do not know the power is out, of course. The only thing we notice is that our phones have quit working. Which is not unusual on the Camino. Out here, your American-carrier phone service only works on days of the week beginning with R.

When we arrive in the hamlet of Carrión de los Condes, however, we realize something is indeed wrong. Our phones are in emergency mode, and we cannot pull up maps to find our hostel.

And so, we wander the serpentine route into town proper, where it seems all the locals are hanging out, outside their respective buildings.

Kids play fútbol in the street. People sit on the curbs, having animated conversations over midday wine. People play cards on tables outside cafés. No lights anywhere. And—here is the really weird part—not a single person playing on their phone.

I find a small older man, sitting on the stoop of his townhouse, sipping what looks like coffee from a thimble-glass.

“Excuse me, sir,” I ask. “Is there truly a nationwide power outage?” 

“Si,” he

replies.

“In all the country of Spain?”

“Si.”

“Heavens. You’re serious?”

“Si.”

“Do you happen to know the reason for the outage, or how long this will last?”

He shrugs.

“Has your power been off all day?”

“Si.”

“Would you mind, terribly, giving me some directions?”

He slowly points to a tiny elderly woman who is watering a flower box.

“Is that your wife?” I ask.

“Si.”

“What’s her name?”

“Sue.”

The wife tells me that her radio reported an…

Every day is the same. You wake up; you walk. Eat, sleep, walk. Repeat. 

Also, you look for cheesecake. You are always looking for cheesecake. You’ve learned that Spain has the best cheesecake in the known solar system. Burnt Basque cheesecake, they call it. And it’s everywhere. In every cafe and bar. And you can afford to eat all the cheesecake your little hindparts desire because you are walking 20 miles per day. 

You like walking. After the first few days, this walking is quite entertaining. It’s fun traveling to different villages expressly on foot. 

All this walking is vaguely reminiscent of your childhood, bringing back memories from when you used to walk to school. Back in the days when American grade-school students walked to school, through rain, sleet, and snow, uphill, both ways, while carrying their little brothers on their backs. 

But after a few weeks, the newness of walking wears off. And you realize you are basically a homeless person. 

You are always dirty. Always covered in dust. Always smelly. You are going to

the bathroom in places you never imagined, some of which do not feature a toilet at all but are in fact abandoned utility sheds with a single hole in the floor. 

The next parts of the Camino’s stages tax your mind. 

Sometimes, for example, you find yourself lost. Sometimes you are confused in a big city, so you resort to common begging. It’s beyond humbling to be helpless in a foreign place. You approach strangers in the streets with your hat, literally, in your hands. 

Other times you are sitting outside a church’s open doorway, hat off, resting your feet, half asleep, covered in mud. Then a family of sightseeing European tourists, wearing designer clothes, enters the church. They are speaking French. 

The…

It was a little church. Off the main path. And you don’t see many “little” churches on the Camino. Most churches here are Gothic monuments. Stone gargantuans, with bells, towering medieval doors, and golden altars. 

This wasn’t one of those. This was a small stone chapel, squatting by the roadside. It looked more like an old barn than a church. There were a few pilgrims inside. There was a nun by the door, smiling at visitors. 

I crossed myself and took a pew. 

After 8 hours of daily walking beneath a Spanish sun, you learn to love churches on a more human level; to appreciate them for exactly what they are. Shelter.

I sit before the altarpiece. I bow my head. 

Ironically, at this exact moment I am here, Pope Francis’s funeral is taking place, somewhere a million miles from this dusty pueblo. 

There are pilgrims on the trail who are watching the funeral via cellphone because this is a major world event. At the Vatican, there are kings, queens and presidents in attendance. There are 130

national delegations, 50 heads of state, and 4,000 journalists from around the world, scrupulously covering the event so they may report to you internationally important details such as, which outfits everyone wore. 

But these little nuns are not in Vatican City. They are here, in the tranquil village of Rabé de las Calzadas. And they are focused on the here and now. 

And right now, there is a goofy American sitting in their pew. A pilgrim. Me. 

I am dirty, weathered, and I don’t smell good because nobody smells good after walking for eight hours. I am staring at the altar and thinking about why I’m here. 

Why. 

Because I am the same age my father was when…

We arrive in the city of Burgos after a 14-mile walk. Although it feels like 14 million miles. Today is hot. We are sunburned, thirsty, and our skin is covered in a fine layer of crystalized salt from evaporated sweat. 

Most pilgrims have chosen to stay the night in the metropolis of Burgos because the city is big, magnificent, and teeming with energy. Plus, it’s just too hot to keep walking today. 

Burgos is a sprawling cosmopolitan world, with pedestrians all wearing designer clothes and nice shoes. Even school children, lingering in the streets, are better dressed than most modern-day Methodists at a Friday night wedding. 

This is an uppity place, we can tell. Namely, because a few pedestrians on the sidewalk—this is true—actually plug their noses and sneer when I pass by.

“Do I smell THAT bad?” I ask my wife. 

But my wife cannot hear me asking because she is 500 feet ahead to avoid being downwind. 

So the Burgos Vibe is not the friendly, “Anthony Quinn” vibe we

have been experiencing throughout Spain thus far. Burgos feels more like New York City’s upper west side during a funeral procession for the former CEO of Louis Vuitton. 

The cashiers in shops and cafès do not smile at us. Many employees will hardly speak to us, although I am speaking Spanish to them. One woman at a bakery actually ignores me until I finally leave.

I walk into a downtown bookstore to find a book to read since I finished my last book. The bell on the door dings. Overhead, the radio plays, of all things, Jerry Reed. I ask the cashier whether they have any “libros en Inglés.” 

The man behind the counter will not even look at me. He is dressed in a Gucci sweater, with…