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 my God! An OVEN! Check out this shower! Would you LOOK at this clean toilet! 

We could’ve cried. 

In reality, of course, the apartment is nanoscopically small, it smells weird, and the hot water lasts about as long as a rendition of “Happy Birthday.” But to us, it was Disneyworld. 

We immediately started texting all our fellow pilgrims on the Camino. Within seconds my wife and I were sharing photos of our new digs with other pilgrims. We sent photos of ourselves posing on the kitchen table. Posing on the sofa. Demonstrating the remarkably pristine toilet bowl lid. 

Then, we invited everyone over for a communal dinner. Bring whatever you want, we said. We’ll all cook together. Come to our place, we said, let’s have a party. 

Soon, preparations were underway. Several of us pilgrims took to the unfamiliar downtown streets of Leòn, terrorizing local supermarkets and tiendas, running up and down the market aisles, giddy, like schoolkids. We bought flour, sugar, fruits, vegetables, chocolate, beer, cookies, coffee, cheese, bread, pasta, and anything else we could cram into our baskets.

So help me—I swear—I will never take the illicit pleasure of grocery shopping for granted again. 

In a few hours, the Airbnb apartment was chock-full of people. The friends we have made on the trail thus far all hail from far off and foreign lands. From Mexico, Austria, Bavaria, Argentina, Japan, France, South Korea, Australia, Switzerland, China, Sweden, Holland, and Milwaukee. 

Everyone contributed something to the supper. Diego made empanadas. Tracey made fruit salad, with ACTUAL fruit. Jamie dusted the counter with flour and made biscuits with pepper gravy. 

Very little English was spoken. Beer was consumed. Not a serious word uttered. We talked about our happiest experiences. About our most funny, embarrassing moments. About our favorite Camino memories. About the weird foods our differing countries eat. 

In Diego’s country, for example, they eat giant baked ants, or stir-fried iguana. In Taku’s country, they eat whale, and “jibachi senebi” (crackers with bugs). In Australia they eat “witchetty grubs” (caterpillar larvae). In Hūn’s country, they eat rats soaked in alcohol. In Jefferson County, Alabama, we eat pear salad. 

By the end of the evening, we were all exhausted. But not too tired to snap a dozen selfies together. We hugged each other’s necks. We slapped each other’s backs and told each other how much we care. 

We don’t know when, or if we shall ever see each other again. But here we are. Right now. Several random strangers, with full tummies, glowing faces, all gathered in the hallway of a tiny Airbnb, saying farewell. Pilgrims in a foreign land, who happened to meet each other on a trail accidentally. 

That is, if you believe in accidents