Sean of the South

Dispatches del Camino

Sean Dietrich

I am sitting in a Spanish bar in the dusty pueblo of Villa de Larraga. This is evidently a locals bar. And I am definitely not a local. I believe I am the only Inglés speaker in this village tonight. 

“Una cerveza?” the lady bartender asks. She is older, white-haired, with green eyes. 

“Por favor,” I reply. 

A TV in the corner plays “Ben Hur” at a loud volume, overdubbed in Spanish. Charelton Heston is in his prime. Everyone in the joint, both young and old, is watching. 

It’s Holy Week, Spain is in full-on party mode. The entire country has become like Woodstock for Catholics. Television stations are broadcasting all the Holy Week classics in Español. “Spartacus,” The Silver Chalice,” “Ten Commandments.”

There are decorations. There are street processions, called “Semanas Santas” occurring in almost every little town. These are like minor Mardi Gras celebrations, with parade floats, pointy hats, and large statues hoisted on the shoulders of many men. 

Villa de Larraga is gearing up for one such parade tonight.

You can feel it. The whole town is buzzing. Kids play fútbol in the streets. Old men sit on benches, sipping wine. Older women congregate on the street in clumps, talking with violently animated hand gestures. 

Currently we are hiking the Camino de Santiago, but right now, I am 20 miles south of the Camino. We are here because there are no places to stay near the Camino. Tonight, my wife and I came scarily close to sleeping on a doorstep. We had to go miles out of the way to find a room. The 

I must’ve called 500 hostels and hotels looking for a vacancy. All full. “Completo.” “Lleva.” “No hay camas.” Thanks for playing. 

Which is why some pilgrims have taken to sleeping alongside the…

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Sean of the South

Dispatches del Camino

Sean Dietrich

“We have no rooms,” the innkeeper says over the phone. 

“None?” I say. 

“We are full.”

My wife and I are sitting on the ancient steps of la Iglesia de Santiago. The Church of Saint James. We are dusty and sweaty, and one of us smells like a giant armpit. (Moi.) 

The stone doorway arch above us features carvings of angels and demons which date back to Roman times. Eight angels surround Christ, who is looking straight at me as though He is saying, “‘No room’ at the inn?—Now where have I heard THAT before?”

“Please,” I say to the innkeeper. “My wife and I are exhausted, there are no rooms anywhere.”

“I said no room.” And the woman hangs up. 

It is late siesta in Spain. No traffic on the highways. No pilgrims on the Camino de Santiago. Streets are vacant. Most pilgrims have already found lodging for the evening and are already getting their complimentary massages. 

At least that’s what I imagine. Because we have been hunting for a room all day,

and there are no vacancies for another 20 miles. It is Holy Week, and the Camino is packed with hikers. Finding a room is like trying to locate a porta john at a bluegrass festival. 

All day we have been seeing pilgrims turned away from hostels. Some, we learn, have been forced to sleep outside on doorsteps. 

I am still staring at the call-ended screen. “She hung up on me,” I say in mock disbelief. 

So I take a moment. I need to get my head together. I need to figure out what we should do. Otherwise we’re sleeping on church steps tonight. 

I wander into the church while Jamie sits on the steps watching our backpacks. I cross…

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