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 parhetique.” The name stuck. I make house calls. 

So anyway, the rain is cold. I am improperly dressed. I wear Birkenstocks because my boots are uncomfortable on my wounded calves. I’m soaked. I can’t quit shivering. 

My fiddle is wrapped in a rain jacket and trash bag. My feet are quasi-purple. And I am waiting for the bus. 

The bus runs once per day here, at 3:22 p.m., which in “global time” is 15:22, or perhaps it’s 16:22, or maybe it’s 538:31:29. There’s no way for me to know. I’m American, I don’t think in global time. Neither do I speak kilometers, Celsius, kilograms, or meters. So when European pilgrims ask how far to the nearest grocery store and I reply, “Ten miles,” they look at me like I just bit the head off a live squirrel. 

After standing in the rain for a few hours, I am humming softly to myself when I notice a distant pilgrim coming off the trail. 

It’s a woman. 

I notice her gait first. Confident and streetwise. It’s a “Don’t mess with me,” stride, with a little, “Wanna party?” thrown in. A bouncy walk. 

I know this woman. 

I see other pilgrims pass her, and they evidently know her too. They are all laughing and high-fiving. I can tell by the body language that this is a popular gal on the Camino. 

Apparently, pilgrims genuinely enjoy being near her. I can tell this by the way they all clap her shoulders, or the way they try so sincerely to match her strides. Everyone surrounding this woman seems happy, wearing faces like they just discovered teeth. 

I too am smiling. 

But for a different reason. Because several days ago, this woman was afraid to walk the trail without me. She held me tightly and wept as we went our separate ways, unsure whether she should leave me. 

I look at her, and I no longer feel cold. She is stronger than she realized. This really is HER Camino. Not mine. This is her trail. Her life. And I am honored to be a supporting actor in her magnificent story. 

The woman sees me standing there. 

She jogs toward me, throws her arms around my neck. And I feel ever so privileged, that heaven would look down upon me, and see fit to bestow on me the affection of such a mujer encantadora. Oh, that God should give me the company of such a fun, cheerful, doggedly optimistic, and unflappable human.

“How are you?” I ask my wife of 22 years. 

She is drenched. She is breathless and rosen cheeked. “I’m great, how are you!”

“Proud,” I reply. 

We talk some. Take a selfie. Then we part ways with many hugs and kisses. She has a lot of trail left to walk. And daylight is disappearing. 

And so it is, I watch this lovely woman walk away, shrinking into the distance, finally disappearing onto the Sacred Trail with nothing but herself, her awareness, and her God. I am soon standing miles behind, stuck in her wake, beaming so hard my cheeks hurt. 

It is only then that I notice the rain has finally stopped in Galicia. But my eyes, however, are still wet.