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 I was. She had read my work—which only shows you how hard up Rabanal is for good literature. 

And in only a matter of minutes, it seemed as though all of Rabanal Del Camino had conspired to help us find lodging. A local innkeeper, a woman named Susana, was making phone calls to find us rooms for the next few nights, speaking semi-automatic Spanish, canvassing the network of innkeepers until she located accommodations. 

“Do not worry,” Susana said in Spanish. “If we have to move pilgrims around the village, we will find space.” 

That same afternoon, I met a woman who I noticed smiling at me. She approached and said, “Are you Sean?” 

You could have knocked me over with a tube of Ultra Strength Bengay. 

Her name was Sazie (Sayzee?), from Maine, and she had also read my work. 

Sazie is a pilgrim who happened to be familiar with my particular injury. Her husband had the same injury a few days ago. She explained how he kicked his problem, what exactly the problem was called, and then we grabbed a selfie together. 

That same evening, I sat in the courtyard, sitting beneath a warm Spanish sun, icing my shins, per Sazie’s advice. I was reading the only English book I have found in this country, “Harry Potter,” which was strangely growing on me. 

I cannot remember ever feeling more embarrassed, or so dependent on charity. I am a big, goofy alien in a distant land, clueless and lost, confused and moderately illiterate, and to make matters worse, I am a redhead. 

So there I was, reading a fourth-grader novel when I noticed a fellow pilgrim hanging laundry on a clothesline. She was smiling at me. 

She looked at me for a few beats. 

“Are you Sean?” she said. 

Her name is Dana. She is from Wisconsin, she is a nurse. She said she had read my work. Moreover, she knew how to treat my injury. In moments, Dana was demonstrating how to properly use athletic tape on my calf, and she laid out an informal medical regimen for recuperation. 

A little later, I was sitting in a small café. I was eating a light snack, drinking café with a dangerous amount of leche, keeping weight off my balloon-inflated calf muscle, when I noticed the barkeep smiling at me. 

This was getting weird. 

“Are you Sean?” he said. 

The barkeep’s name was José, he is originally from Andalucía, and he had a care package for me. 

“For ME?” I said. 

The package had been dropped off earlier. Inside the package was a variety of natural and herbal antiinflamatorios and cremas, given to me by Kim.

I was humbled. And a little embarrassed. I don’t know these people, and yet so many have taken time out of their busy lives to help. I shook José’s hand. My voice broke a little. “Thank you,” I said. 

José’s English was limited. He simply shrugged and smiled. “This is the Camino,” he said, as though this explained everything. 

And I think, perhaps, it might.