The albergue looks like a mountain chalet. We are snugly situated deep within the Fonfaraón Mountains, which climb high into the Spanish sky, separating us from an entire civilization below the cloud line. 

Here atop the world, the mountain peaks look like incarnations of the Appalachians, with a fuzzy, green carpet-like texture, rounded edges, and swooping valleys that gather pools of fog like a white lake. 

We will be hiking this today. 

We have slept in bunkrooms for the past several nights. We have listened to much snoring, much nose blowing, much belching, and many lower-intestinal expulsory events. 

But we pilgrims know each other by now. We have been hiking together at different paces for the past week. We have eaten alongside each other, slept with each other, shared supplies with each other, confided in one another, and partaken in each other’s B.O. 

Besides, we are all here for the same reason. The reason: to witness some of the most powerful beauty on our planet. To conquer the mountain. 

We will

walk the Ruta de los Hospitales, a strenuous path upward toward the sun, miles above Spain. The views up there, veterans tell us, are like painted landscape scenes that never seem to stop. The overlooks just keep coming, one after the other. 

Pilgrims come from all over the globe to hike the Camino Primitivo simply to see what we are about to see today. They are here from South Korea, France, Russia, Sweden, Washington, D.C., Cameroon, Serbia, Australia, and even Jefferson County, Alabama. 

We talked about it all night over dinner. We talked about it in the bunkrooms. We talked about it just before drifting off to sleep. Some of us are unsure whether we will make it. Some of us are unsure whether we should even try. 

“Take time, pilgrim,” the old Frenchman said. “Take time to stop and smell every flower, not just some of them.”

He was old. If not in body, in soul. What little bit of white hair he once possessed had vanished. So had some of his teeth. 

It was midday. He was drinking beer at a café in Salas, Spain. By the looks of it he was on his second, about to round third, and on his way toward home plate. 

“Stop and see every vista,” he said. “Even if the view looks like one you have seen before. Take it in. Spend a long time with this view. Sit with this view. Don’t be in a hurry to finish the trail. Try to finish last if you can. 

“Stop and greet every horse with a handful of bread. Say hello to every sheep, every cow, every duck. Treat them as your best friends on this Camino.”

So that’s what we did today. 

The first horse we met approached the fence

to greet us. He was friendly and animated. My wife named him Roger. Roger tried to eat her shirt. He was grateful for the apple I gave him. 

Roger said hello with a burst of air through his nostrils and a little whinny. Then, Jamie and I petted his head. We took turns rubbing his ears and caressing the broad patch between his eyes. Roger was content to let us give him this little two-man massage. He leaned into us to make our jobs easier. 

Next, we stopped to admire the mountainous views even though there were so many of them. So many arresting views that each vista almost began to lose its impact. So many fragrant wildflowers the air itself stung your nose. 

We stood before the massive…

A rooster crows as day breaks over the surrounding Cantabrian Mountains. He crows every few moments, singing an anthem to morning, his voice ringing throughout the tiny village of Cornellana.

I am in a bar, drinking morning joe. My bartender is working his buns off.

Cornellana is a charming town. The yards and apartment balconies are adorned with clotheslines, weighted with fresh laundry. Tiny, little-kid clothes. Boys’ underpants, tighty-whities, flapping in the wind. Pink frilly nightgowns, multicolored socks, old-woman dresses, aprons, red brassieres, blue jeans, T-shirts.

The terra-cotta rooftops, stained with age and black mildew, host ferns growing between the tiles’ crevices, and old-school TV antennas mounted to each ridgeline, which blanket the roofline of this small village.

It’s mostly silent this morning, except for the gabby rooster, of course. This is because this town, by and large, has no A/C. Thus, no humming compressors drone in the ever-present background, no thrumming 16-ton monster units belching out a middle C for hours, days, months, decades on end. Only quiet.

The two guards park their cruiser and enter the café. They have a seat next to me. More men enter, both young and old. These are locals, not pilgrims. They all enter the tavern for coffee and bocadillos and socialization. They do this every day.

Namely, because socialization is an important thing here. No. It’s THE important thing here.

This is why bars and cafés are perpetually crowded with locals who surround sidewalk tables and lampposts, laughing and carrying on. There is no special occasion for this. Life is the occasion.

“We do this every day,” says my bartender. “For many hours of each day.”

They socialize more than work. They socialize as often as they eat or drink. The Spanish live to socialize. Elderly people, teens, middle-aged.…

Our first day walking the Camino. We leave our inn at Oviedo a little after daybreak.

There are no people on the streets. No cars. Only one stray dog, dutifully cleaning his privates, and one old man hosing down a section of street in front of his shop while smoking a cigar the size of a grown man’s upper thigh.

We wind through the city, heavy-laden with the packs upon our backs, making our way past the Catedral de San Salvador. I’ve forgotten how heavy a backpack can be. It’s been a year since my last Camino. There are some things you forget.

We say a quick prayer outside the cathedral. And just like that, our feet are officially on the Camino Primitivo.

It isn’t long before we are in pure mountains. The hillsides swoop upward, through dense forests, past white-foamed streams, along picturesque mountain pastures composed solely of sheep manure.

Monstrous cumulus clouds overtake our mountains, and the air grows spicy with the smell

of fresh mint and the scent of coming rain. Distant claps of thunder sound, and a quilt of mist falls from the iron sky.

The earth is muddy and soupy. The smell of foliage becomes so strong it waters your eyes.

We pass our first pilgrim of the day. A small older woman with red pixie-cut hair, a smile on her face, and a German accent. She pauses every mile to remove a leather-bound book from her backpack and recite scripture quietly to herself. Then she prays the Anima Christi in Latin.

The incline grows steeper with each step until our noses are touching the soil as we trek ever upward.

After a full day of walking, we arrive at our albergue in the hamlet of Palatína. Although to call this a village would be gracious. Palatína is merely a wide spot on the trail.

Pablo…

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…