Morningtime. 

My wife and I parted in the lobby of the albergue. She was crying. It was a little-girl cry. The kind of crying you do when you don’t care who is watching you. She has never been self-conscious about her own emotions. Thank God nobody ever told this beautiful woman that it’s not dignified to cry in public. 

All the pilgrims were buzzing around us, gawking at the weeping woman. They were getting ready for their day on the Camino as white fog hung over distant peaks and summits, hovering atop the green mountainsides like Aladdin’s carpet. 

The lobby was alive with energy. Pilgrims were unpacking and repacking their backpacks. Stuffing belongings into tiny drybags, then shoving these bags into slightly larger drybags, then, finally, cramming these bags into backpacks. They laced their boots. They refilled water bottles. 

Meanwhile, my wife and I stood at the door, saying farewell. 

My taxi had just arrived and was waiting on me. We said goodbye with an immersive American hug. A full-body embrace. 

You

can say whatever you want about Americans, and you’d probably be right about us. Still, despite our political vitriol; despite our exploded sense of self-entitlement; despite our self-congratulatory demeanor; despite our classical ineptness within other countries; we are huggers. 

We Americans hug one another for every conceivable occasion, including the onset of daylight saving time. We slap backs. We press our hearts together. We hold each other long and hard. 

Jamie held me tight and wept into my ear. We have walked 350 miles together, through peaks and valleys. We traversed river basins, crossed miles of flowering canola fields, did our laundry in the sink at random albergues. We crossed the Pyrenees together. 

But my legs were unable to endure a moment more. I tried for as long as…

I bought this hat in my dad’s hometown, many years ago. It has always been my favorite hat. For years, it’s been my constant reminder of his beautiful and tragic life. Today, after walking 336

miles on the Camino de Santiago, I left it at the foot of a very big cross.

I don’t feel much like writing today.

My morning began at 7:12 a.m. My eyes opened beneath a quilt-work of eye boogers. My head, still on its pillow. 

My eyes first caught the sight of a rosary, lying on my nightstand. The rosary was given to me by a nun, a few villages back. The rosary bears a hieroglyphic-like symbol on it. I have no idea what this symbol means. 

The first thing I heard upon arising was a choir of human noise. This is the Camino de Santiago. The symphony of morning sounds within a Camino hostel or albergue is a concert of shuffling, thumping, squealing, thrumming, ticking, flopping, and multiple conversations, simultaneously taking place, in 7,000 international languages. 

A soprano section of backpack zippers. A tenor section of rubber soles, squeaking like the boys’ basketball team on a gymnasium floor. A bass section of bodily orifices, clearing themselves in the form of nose blowing, throat purging, sniffing, spitting, sneezing, coughing, grunting, moaning, and of course, explosive flatulence. 

I spent the morning fiddling. I was sitting in bed. Icing both legs. Playing

my fiddle with a mute attached to the bridge. My wife was still sleeping. Her tan is deeper brown than most pilgrims. Her unspoken Creek ancestry is showing. 

Medical professionals recommended two days' rest for my wife’s idiot husband inasmuch as his calves look like water balloons. I told my wife to keep walking the Camino without me. I would catch up eventually—even if I had to take a bus. 

She told me to, quote, “Go to hell.” Unquote. 

So we have become fixtures in Rabanal Del Camino, a town with barely enough residents to form a baseball team. 

Each morning, the village empties itself of pilgrims, and the cobbled streets are empty and there is nothing to do but fiddle. 

This is…

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…

Dear God, thank you for letting me happen upon this small church, so I might rest my anguished feet. This little church, alongside the Camino, somewhere in the far flung regions of rural Spain. A place where I can kneel and pray in solitude. 

I’m alone in this ornate Catholic chapel, save for one elderly nun who is watching me from the back of the room, giving me plenty of space for prayer.

I wonder if this nun knows how hard it is for a guy like me to concentrate and pray. 

When I was a little boy, praying was always a challenging endeavor. Namely, because my ADD-riddled adolescent mind liked to wander into various places, into unrelated fantasy scenarios, some of which involved cowboys, or pirates, or women in swimsuits made entirely of dental floss, and pretty soon I’d lose track of what I was thinking about. Kind of like I’m doing right now. 

In many ways, Lord, I am like Peter, who couldn’t even watch and pray one hour with you. And I

bet I could deny you, too.

We have been walking the Camino de Santiago for a long time now. I don’t even remember when we started. It seems like 600 years ago we set out. I don’t even remember why we’re out here.

We have been away from our own country for more than a month, we have 260-some kilometers left to walk on a distant dirt path through nowhere. 

I am tired, I am weary, and it feels as though angry, soccer-playing toddlers have been kicking my shins all month long. Over the last few days, my steps have all been painful, and whenever we stop walking, I cry when no one can see me.

I don’t cry because of the pain, God. The pain…

Leòn Cathedral is among the greatest of human works in Gothic style. The church features one of the world’s largest collections of medieval stained glass windows.

Right now, the bells are ringing, calling the people to service. You can hear the bells toll across the city on this rainy morning.

I am wearing my waterproof, trotting across the town square, just in time for mass.

Church is full. There are no pews available. I stand in the rear of the ornate sanctuary alongside other pilgrims, our 100-pound backpacks snugly fitted on our shoulders.

Daylight shines through a stone Gothic frame of 130 individual stained glass windows, illuminating the heads of all congregants with a rainbow spectrum of medieval colors.

Mass is conducted in Spanish. Although I speak Spanish, I am only able to understand a total of three words.

Meantime, I am looking at the stained glass. In one window, I see 12 bearded men, wearing bathrobes and Birkenstocks. I assume I am looking at a depiction of

the apostles, although they could be Dead Heads on their way to San Francisco.

It hurts to stand. I am currently nursing a spasmed calf muscle. It is only a cramp, but it has slowed me down. I am now walking with a slight limp, lingering behind the troop.

Other pilgrims have been passing me on the Camino, they all see the telltale athletic tape on my calf and ask in concerned voices, “Estas bien?”

“Bien, bien,” I always reply with a self-effacing laugh. But deep inside I am embarrassed. Because I feel like a dork. Limping along. One painful kilometer at a time.

I look around the cathedral at my fellow pilgrims. There are many teenage hikers in the congregation. They are brimming with adolescent energy,…

Q: How many weeks until you are finished walking the Camino de Santiago?

A: Too many. 

Q: I am confused why anyone would feel the need to walk 500 miles. Is this Camino a religious experience for you? 

A: Depends on what you mean by “religious.”

Q: Are you doing this for God?

A: No. For me. 

Q: So what are YOU expecting to receive out of all this? 

A: I expect nothing. 

Q: Then why do it?

A: I travel to Santiago to pay respects to the bones of James, one of Jesus’s closest earthly friends, first apostle to be killed in the name of a cultural belief system I was raised in.

Q: You don’t ACTUALLY believe Santiago contains the actual bones of Saint James, do you?

A: Then, I travel to Santiago to pay my respects to some random guy’s bones.

Q: Doesn’t this make you feel pretty stupid?

A: No. I always feel stupid.

Q: Why walk this path? Aren’t you basically just another annoying American tourist?

A: Pretty much.

Even so, mankind has been walking this same pathway since this road was an ancient Roman trade route. Throughout history, millions of humans walked this route when they needed a miracle. It was their last and only hope. I follow—literally—in their footsteps. 

Q: You’re writing these dispatches too often! Shame on you! I want to pull my hair out each time you write and say to you, “This is your life! Put your damn phone away or you’ll miss the experience of living!” You should be taking a break from your technology, not writing this! 

A: Pot, meet Kettle. 

Q: How are you writing these 800-word columns/dispatches…

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…

He was a blind man, walking the highway toward El Burgo Ranero. If he wasn’t totally blind, the sunglasses meant he was low vision. Cars shot past him as he trudged along, seemingly unaware of the vehicles.

The old man walked bent at the waist, carrying a wooden walking stick. He was shuffling forward slowly on the old Spanish road, wearing a neon safety vest. He was using his stick to tap the ground, running his cane along the edge of the pavement for surety.

Another car sped by.

This car, faster than the others. I could feel the draft from the vehicle’s forward motion. It was enough to knock a person down. There are no posted speed limits on this highway. Each passing motorist drives like a proverbial bat out of Gatlinburg.

And still the man walked forward.

It had been one of those days when I didn’t feel like walking. My mood had dropped. I was thinking about certain problems in my life, and it was getting me down. Sometimes I

think too much about the past.

The silence of the Camino was weighing on me. My godforsaken backpack was weighing even heavier on my shoulders, like an overgrown toddler. My joints hurt. I was low on sleep.

Some days you walk the Camino; some days the Camino walks all over you.

My wife was half a mile ahead, walking with her friend and superhuman speed-walking Australian, Tracey. They were a long way ahead, in the distance, giving me space.

I could see both females ahead, gesticulating as they talked, flailing their hands about, like tiny animatronic silhouettes on the horizon. Whatever they were talking about, by the velocity of their hand movements, their conversation looked internationally important.

Tracey is our new friend and my…

DEAR SEAN: 

I don’t get why you’re doing the Camino. Can you explain why you feel it’s necessary to torture yourself for spiritual reasons? It all sounds like Catholic self-flagellation, very medieval to me. Pointless. 

DEAR FRIEND: 

You make a good point. 

When you’re out here on the Camino de Santiago, God knows, you’re tired of walking. Tired of moving your feet. You’re not tired physically. Your body feels okay, mostly, except for the fact that everything—even the gray matter of your brain—feels like it has been drop kicked by a 19-year-old NFL draftee. 

You’re tired mentally. You don’t WANT to walk. You are no longer excited by the idea of walking. Walking does nothing to thrill you, spiritually. 

At one time, walking was a beautiful act. A way of connecting you with your fellow human being. With nature. With life. But now walking is an offensive concept. Walking is a dirty word. 

Walking is this thing you do because you HAVE to. Because you signed up for this. It is almost like you are in

the military now. Except you’re not a marine; you are not serving your country. You’re paying good money to do this crap. 

You are in the wilds of far-flung rural Spain, walking by your own choosing. So there is no one to blame for your situation but yourself. 

Your mornings start EARLY. You have no choice because your albergue du jour has a checkout time of 7:30 a.m. and you must evacuate the premises immediately so that an overworked, middle-aged, moderately depressed, Spanish man carrying a backpack vacuum canister can fumigate the entire bunk room for bedbugs, lice, and flatulent fumes, all of which you still carry on your person, within the very fibers of your clothing, so that you may re-experience these…