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…