We find a table in the old Spanish café and order two cafés con leche. I order our breakfast by repeatedly tapping the menus and saying in English, “Uh, I’m sorry, I don’t know this word…”

My waitress finds my ordering technique amusing.

“Why do you say ‘sorry?’” the Spanish woman asks sincerely.

But I don’t understand.

“Sorry?” I reply.

“You keep apologizing. Why?”

“Because my Spanish is awful?”

The waitress laughs. “But you did nothing wrong. Why do some Americans always say ‘sorry?’”

So I explain that we Americans who say this aren’t necessarily apologizing—per se. It’s a figure of speech. A habit. We overuse the word “sorry” even in situations when we have nothing to apologize for except Kim Kardashian.

And we aren’t the only culture to use the superfluous apology. The British start 99 percent of their sentences with this word. The ultra-polite Canadians also liberally use the S-word. My cousins live in Montreal and say that if you want to get a Canadian to say “sorry,” just step on their foot.

But why do I, personally, do this?

With our pilgrimage to Santiago beginning today, I am wondering why I say “sorry” so often. People back home are always telling me I subconsciously apologize too much. And now people in Spain are saying the same thing. What does this say about me?

Well, for starters, it probably says I carry a lot of shame around. Which is true, of course. I was ashamed of everything as a kid.

I grew up in an abusive household. I learned how to say “sorry” whenever my father was in a bad mood. The children of such households quickly learn the art of effusive apology.

Also, I experienced shame when my father died. This is because his suicide was violent and ugly, published in local papers, along with his specific sins, and his mugshot, like a novelty news item.

As a boy I was also ashamed of my body. I was an overweight kid. My entire fourth-grade class was skinny and collectively ate less than Gandhi. Everyone except me. I looked like I’d eaten Larry from “Leave It to Beaver.”

I remember going to the doctor for a checkup. Back in those days, doctors used politically incorrect words without filters. As in: “Good God, this boy is fat!”

“You really need to take care of your body, young man,” the doctor said sternly as he lit his Camel.

So I started jogging at age 14. I exercised at night so nobody would see my ugly body, running through the neighborhood. I wore cutoff jean shorts and Chuck Taylors. The first night, I ran from one telephone pole to the next and almost passed out from oxygen debt. The following night I ran for two telephone poles. Then three poles. Soon I was doing five miles.

But the shame never went away. No matter how many miles I ran. I haven’t taken my shirt off at a public pool since I was 10.

Then there’s my education. I dropped out in seventh grade. I simply decided I didn’t want to go. And my family was in such turmoil in the aftermath of my old man, so traumatized, they let me quit. I regret it to this day.

But enough sad talk. I’m not putting myself down. And I’m not asking for pity.

What I want is to walk this Camino and contemplate the presence of shame in my life. I want to understand where, exactly, shame’s tentacles reach within my heart. And I want it exhumed.

When I pay for our breakfast, I reach into my pocket to remove cash, and a rock falls out.

I hold it in my hand. It’s small and smooth.

This rock I carry on the Camino came from the garden of Helen Keller’s childhood home. And I am reminded of a story about Helen.

The year was 1955. A five-year-old blind girl named Dorothy Ciccoli idolized Helen. She’d learned about her in Sunday school class. Dorothy begged her mother to meet Helen someday.

As fate would have it, Helen was visiting town. So, Dorothy’s mother brought her to a reception tea where an elderly Helen was the honored guest.

But it was too crowded. Five hundred people had gathered to meet Helen. Dorothy and her mom couldn’t push through all the people.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Dorothy’s mother said from the back of the crowd. “This is as close as we’ll get.”

The little girl was so moved, she began to sob as her mother described Helen’s physical features to the child.

A man nearby saw this weeping child and pushed through the crowd toward Helen. He informed Helen’s interpreter about the girl. The moment Helen learned of the child she sprang to her feet and told the crowd to make room.

Helen found her way to the girl. Whereupon she took Dorothy’s little tear-slicked face into her hands, only to notice that the child was facing downward from embarrassment. She knew the whole room was staring at her.

Helen lifted the girl’s head.

“Never bend your head,” said Helen. “Always hold it high. Look the world straight in the face.”

The little girl’s shame evaporated. She reached out a little hand and traced the worn and weathered skin of Helen’s face.

The huge room, now silent, heard the child whisper: “Mother, I saw her. I saw Helen Keller.”

So anyway, I’m running out of room here, and we have hundreds of miles left to walk. I guess I’m a little long-winded today.

Sorry.