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 dad of the family sees you, digs into his pocket, and tosses some pocket change into your upside-down hat. 

“I’m not homeless,” you explain to this man. 

But he does not speak English. He thinks you’re asking for more money, so he puts a few more Euros into your hat. You don’t even bother to correct him this time. At this point, you just accept the money and ask if he knows where you can find cheesecake. 

The most testing part of it all, however, is not the walking. It’s the albergues. 

Albergues are your greatest blessing and your fiercest trial. They are the heartbeat of your trail community. 

The albergue is your only home. A communal bunk facility where, according to European Union law, at least eight out of ten guests must suffer from life threatening obstructive sleep apnea. 

You had no idea how many people, globally, were sleep apnea victims until now. You used to think the threat of nuclear war was the main international issue in the world. But now you know the biggest crisis facing humanity is definitely sleep apnea. It’s hard to slumber through the night without using expletives. 

Then, a rooster crows. 

There is always a rooster in the immediate vicinity of all albergues. This is also European law. Goodness knows how Spain loves their roosters. But you would gladly listen to a warehouse full of roosters if it meant that you never heard snoring again. 

And so you keep walking. 

The sun has not yet fully risen. A negative thought enters your brain. You calculate that, as of now, you’ve been out here for over two weeks now. You’ve covered over 200 miles and you’re STILL not even halfway to Santiago. 

Then you see something ahead. 

On the side of the trail stands a sign reaching at least 10 feet over your head. It shows the route to Santiago. And judging by the location of the cute little walking man on the giant map, it looks like you have roughly 6 million miles remaining. 

That’s when it becomes mental. It’s not that you’re unsure whether you can keep doing this. Of course you know it’s possible to finish this trail. The human body can do all sorts of remarkable things. 

But why? Why are you out here? Why are you sleeping in rural, rundown albergues that make average Motel 6s look like the White House? Why are you listening to all this snoring, night in and night out? 

There’s the spiritual reason, of course. You keep reminding yourself that this spirituality is your primary motivation. You’ve already been freed of a few significant burdens. 

There’s the “people” reason. You’ve already found the most incredible communion with other humans. You’ve already hugged more human beings in two weeks than in your entire life. 

There is the miracle reason. You’re moved to tears every few hours by the miracles that have taken place. For the Trail-Miracle Ratio is MUCH higher than the Daily-Life-Miracle Ratio. Why? Because you’re paying attention now. Therefore, miracles which were happening all the time, start REALLY happening now. 

We are all here for these things, I guess. We are here for this community. We are here for this love. For the people. We are even here for the snoring. 

But mostly, we are here for the cheesecake