We leave our inn at daybreak. Our innkeeper is awake and already at the front door, wearing a robe, waiting to say goodbye to us. Like a mom seeing her kids off to school.

She gives us a heartfelt and emotional goodbye in French, with double kisses and everything.

“Dieu sout avec toi,” she says.

I don’t speak French, so I answer, “Ten four.”

Which she evidently doesn’t understand. And there’s no way to explain such a philosophical concept as “ten four,” so I give her a hug instead. The French, I am pleased to learn, are huggers.

And we’re off.

Jamie and I are wearing heavy packs. But not as heavy as some pilgrims. Some hikers have fallen victim to overkill packing. They are wearing packs the size of Hondas. But they will learn. Just like we all will. That on the Camino, as in life, it is not how much you carry that matters, but how much you are able to leave behind.

There are a handful of other pilgrims leaving San-Jean-Pie-du-Port at the same time we are, making their exodus on foot. You can pick us “peregrinos” out of the crowd because of the enormous backpacks we carry.

Soon we are all on a highway which winds through impossibly green hills. A thick fog drapes itself over the earth. Sheep everywhere. Some of which stand directly in the road and poop.

But this is all part of the experience. The fog, the livestock, the poop. Just like life.

When you close your eyes, all you hear are the patter of your own footsteps. Occasionally you will pass other pilgrims. They all have reasons for walking.

Soon we are all climbing steep mountain highways. And it’s all starting to sink in. This is not a “vacation.” This is not supposed to be “fun” in the traditional sense. There are no tour guides. No tour groups. No itinerary. No beverage service. This is an allegory for our own lives. You walk. You get blisters. That’s all.

We are essentially possession-less. This land is not ours. We are foreigners in a strange world. Pilgrims. We have no home except our packs. We have no family except each other. And worse, we have no beer.

We hike uphill for half the day until we arrive at our first hostel, we are a little surprised inasmuch as the hostel materializes out of the fog like a mirage in the middle of nowhere.

They have food and warmth inside. It looks like an old hunting lodge. The owners are loud and cheerful and very French. The common area feels more like the convivial atmosphere of a pub.

Pilgrims laughing. Glasses clinking. The scent of garlic and shallots fills the air. Fresh baked baguette. And body odor.

We find our bed is in a bunkroom with eight other pilgrims. Our shower is coin-operated and only runs five minutes. It’s cold water. Deal with it. There is no heater in the bunk room. Everyone’s collective b.o. smells like a giant human gluteal crevice. Someone is already asleep and snoring loud enough to loosen your dental ceilings.

But this is the Camino.

Supper features a long table, with 40-odd pilgrims, and pints of tepid beer. In any other travel scenario, I would have more than enough to complain about. But right now I am just grateful not to be walking.

We pilgrims are told by the innkeepers that before we eat, we must stand and introduce ourselves, explaining our reasons for waking.

Most of the pilgrims speak French, Spanish, German, Dutch, Taiwanese, or Korean. But English is spoken too.

“I first walked the Camino many years ago,” said one Italian man, “and I was so lonely, so I prayed that I’d find an amazing wife someday.” Then he gestures to a blushing woman beside him. “This is the amazing wife God give to me.”

A French woman. “I walk this Camino because I need to find my spirit again.”

An older Taiwanese guy. “I believe I am here to rediscover my life and my soul.”

A young Austrian woman. “I walk so I won’t waste my life.”

There is much laughter, and much wine and not a single shallow conversation around this table. No insincere formalities. No insecure one-upmanship games. No meaningless cocktail party talk. (“So, how strong is your investment portfolio, Chaz?”)

No. Tonight people are talking about real things. They speak of God, and love, and Grace, and Peace, and fear, and sorrow, and Christ, and forgiveness, and the many faults of man-made religion, and the lifelong bone-crushing search to find out who we are, why we have the capacity to suffer, and why, most of all, did we choose to walk this road?

New friendships are made. New resolutions formed. New journeys begin. Prayers are uttered. You can feel something happening here.

And soon it’s time to visit the bunk room to see which one of us snores the loudest. Please God, don’t let it be me.

Ten four.