Six of us have fallen in together, walking side by side for the last several miles of the Camino de Santiago. 

We are all strangers. All pilgrims. From different nations. There is dust on our backpacks, mud on our boots, and we all smell like something a diuretic horse produced. 

Each of us walks with a forward leaning gait, which is a gait synonymous with backpacking pilgrims. We perpetually lean forward against the never ending weight of the individual loads we carry. Some persons’ packs are heavier than others. As in life. 

But at this moment, our individual paces have, for some reason, aligned. And now we are all together. Six unlikely people on a trail. 

Which happens a lot out here. Sometimes you walk alone; sometimes with people. Friends come. Friends go. People’s daily walks intersect, then diverge. You might meet someone and form a connection, then never see this person again. You might meet someone who could piss off Mother Teresa. You will see this person every day. 

The Spanish sun is hot. We

are covered in sweat. The sound of our feet on the trail sounds like many percussion instruments. 

Richard, from Cork, sees the fiddle on my back. He speaks with an Irish brogue. “Are you gonna be singing for us now, Sean?” 

“Depends,”‘I reply. “How badly do you want to throw up?”

Richard is young, tall and lean, with an auburn mass of curly hair. He keeps asking me to sing so I give in. I sing a Johnny Cash tune. I sing in rhythm with my steps, gasping for oxygen, recounting the eternal anthem of a male named “Sue.”

Everyone applauds when I finish because this is more polite than gagging. 

“Your turn to sing,” I say to Richard. 

We are walking through Navarrete on Easter Monday the moment Pope Francis dies. The bells of the massive church are ringing, non-stop. Locals are in a kind of reverential shock.

“El papa está muerto,” we keep hearing.

It is the first time in 1,300 years a pope has died on Easter Monday.

I walk into la Iglesia Santa Maria de la Asunción. I remove my hat. I take a pew. The altar is made of more gold than I have ever seen. There are older women in the pew beside me, praying. They are weeping. “Santa Maria…” they moan.

Soon, it is time to walk again. We walk the Camino beneath a white-hot Spanish sun, and many on the trail are speaking of the pope’s life.

“He was the voice of the poor,” one Argentinian man says. “He was a humble servant,” says a woman from Mexico.

An Irish woman tells me it was the pope’s words who first convinced her to walk the Camino.

She says, “The pope once said that

you can learn all things about God, just by walking. Nothing else is needed.”

And as these people speak, we realize we are all indeed walking. And it seems a holy endeavor suddenly. Moving one’s feet.

I am getting the sense that we were all designed for this very act. Walking.

In my life, I’ve never actually known what I was made for. As a boy I thought I was designed to be a starting pitcher. When I got older, I believed fervently that I was supposed to become a photographer for Sports Illustrated’s annual May issue.

As I aged, I drank the Kool-Aid of modern society and believed I was created for the purpose of finding a decent job. Other times, I…

The 83-year-old woman has been opening her home to pilgrims since before I was born.

Currently, she is bustling around her house, gathering fresh towels and soaps for us. We are standing in her doorway, drenched, cold, and looking about as content as wet Himalayan cats.

She speaks no English. But my six semesters of college Español courses are coming back to me. I am finally able to have Spanish conversations without stuttering or urinating in my pants.

Caring for pilgrims, I am learning, is a holy endeavor in Spain. Not just a hobby. Not just something you do on weekends.

From what I glean, the woman’s husband is dead. She has been aiding pilgrims since she was a young woman, because she feels this is her life’s purpose. Her children are grown now, and they also help pilgrims.

We shed our muddy boots at the woman’s behest. The woman’s son is soon on his knees, stuffing newspaper into our wet, stinky boots. His bare hands are deep inside our gross, massive stink factories.

I

tell him this is not necessary, he smiles and tells me it is necessary—the newspaper will help dry the boots.

I am humbled. This man is dealing with our mud-splattered, sweaty shoes without flinching.

Caring for pilgrims is their trade. In a way, their family business. Which is only an example of how seriously locals treat the pilgrimage. This is not a mere profession for, but a “vocación.” A calling.

Thank God for this calling. Literally. Because tonight all nearby hostels were full. There was no room at the proverbial inn. The proverbial Mary and Joseph would’ve been compelled to keep hiking onward until they hit proverbial East-Bumble Timbuktu.

The old lady took pity on us. She first spotted us as we trudged through the rain-soaked village, clutching our packs, wearing the same agonizing looks of those who have just lost the SEC National Championship.

We will start walking before sunrise. Pilgrims are lacing up boots in the darkness outside our hostel, on our way to Santiago. Many languages are spoken. No English.

It’s cold in these mountains. And windy. A guy sits beside me. He has a Southern accent, like I do.

“This seat taken?”

His name is Steve, from Chattanooga. We shake hands. He and I are so grateful to have someone to speak English with that we are talking blue streaks.

“Isn’t this amazing?” Steve says. “To be in a place where you don’t know anyone, and yet you feel so close to everybody?”

He’s right. It is strange. To feel deep comradeship with total foreigners. People you might otherwise never interact with.

But you’re speaking now. In fact, you do more than speak. You empathize. You connect. You complain about the weather. About the five-minute showers. You’re all in this together.

Breakfast is light. Steve has Cornflakes. I have coffee. I'm trying to coax my muscles into another day of abuse.

A Korean man at the table sees my cowboy

hat and is intrigued. He asks to try on the hat, communicating solely in hand gestures.

The hat is four sizes too big, and droops on his head like Speedy Gonzalez’s sombrero, but he is thrilled. The man poses for pictures with his friends, holding pretend air-pistols, saying to the camera, “I am Crint East-rood.”

Our walk begins.

The sun is not yet up. Pilgrims are on the desolate highway, trudging onward in the dark of morning. We are in the far flung hills.

There are no houses out here. No barns. No evidence of man. Just farm animals, kept captive without fences. Because where would they go?

It’s foggy, we can't see anything except our own feet.

Then the sun comes up. Sunrise starts slow, and intensifies. Like the second movement of a symphony. That’s when we realize we are…

We walk into the village, coasting on fumes. We are covered in mud and sweat, clutching our backpacks. Looking for rooms.

The woman at the hostel utters four magic words. “Si, we have beds.”

This is amazing. There have been no beds in Spain for Holy Week. It’s almost Easter Sunday and we have been beggars, compelled to walk the Camino de Santiago with our hats in hand, and our hands out, looking for beds.

“Puede ayudarnos?” (Can you help us?) is a phrase I’ve grown too familiar with, asking strangers.

Many pilgrims have grown discouraged and already abandoned the trail. I know two pilgrims who dropped out and caught planes home. One woman slept in a public restroom. Spain is simply too full to find rooms. I think everyone in this country must sleep standing up.

Even the little pueblos are packed. Easter in Spain is like Times Square on New Year’s Even, minus the giant ball and the public urination.

But we have a bed. Tonight. Us. A

warm bed. With a shower! I could cry.

Tonight’s hostel is small. This place is, by all means, a total dump. The bunk rooms look like Club Med for bedbugs. I don’t believe the staff has cleaned this place since the Spanish-American War. The shower smells like an intergluteal crevice. But to me, this place is pure heaven.

We are served a communal dinner. The table is surrounded with pilgrims from many nations. Denmark, Taiwan, Bosnia, South Korea, France, Austria, and Jefferson County, Alabama.

A woman brings us wine in clay pitchers, which we drink from mismatched plastic tumblers. The soup is simple, potatoes and leeks. The bread is hard enough to sand oil stains from residential driveways. And it is the best food I’ve ever tasted in my…

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…

3:03 a.m.—I’m awake before my wife. Actually, I’m awake before the rest of France. Jet lag has me screwed up. It’s 3 in the morning here but 8 p.m. in Alabama.

Thus, I am locked away in our inn’s bathroom, door closed, sitting on a latrine, playing my fiddle, with a brass mute affixed to the instrument’s bridge.

4:10 a.m.—Jamie is still sleeping. I’m still fiddling.

5:37 a.m.—I am now sitting in the inn’s garden, fiddling. Sleeping Beauty still hasn’t budged.

There is an older woman in the cottage next door, listening to me play through an open window as she works in her kitchen. She pauses to lean out the window and give light applause when I finish playing “Over the Waves.” I’m not sure whether she is applauding because she liked the song or because I am no longer playing.

6:24 a.m.—I am watching a calico cat creep along terracotta rooftops in the dark distance. He carefully leaps from one roofline to the next. I think he hears my fiddle and is looking for his

wounded sibling.

7:28 a.m.—The sun rises in San-Jean-Pie-de-Port, slowly ascending behind the small French hamlet, nestled in the Pyrenees. Silver mist clings to the mountainsides like a damp dishrag. Distant sheep graze on swatches of green farmland quilting the rocky hillsides. It is my great hope that my wife wakes up someday soon.

8:32 a.m.—Jamie is awake. We eat a breakfast of muesli, which is cereal. Our innkeeper tells us muesli will help us go to the bathroom. The French woman doesn’t speak English, so instead of saying “bathroom,” she uses hand gestures to pantomime “severe gastrointestinal distress.” Then she laughs. The French are wonderful.

10:00 am—We are at the supermarket, buying food for our upcoming walk. There is evidently no peanut butter in this store, or in all of France.

They sell items I've never heard of. Tiny octopuses in a jar.…