Once a pilgrim, always a pilgrim

It's very difficult to describe the Camino to people who have not walked it, but here I am, trying to put words to something that is next to impossible to explain.

How can you possibly describe the people you spend 24/7 with? I mean literally 24/7.  We sleep in the same room, wake up at the same time, walk for 8 hours or so together, and when we get to the albergues we are miraculously not sick of each other yet and spend the entire evening together.  We have inside jokes, we know each other's shitting habits, we know how each person takes their coffee and what to order for each other if someone is in the restroom when the waiter comes.  Emily likes an Americano with her breakfast and will take a napolitana pastry any time of day if the restaurant has them.  Paca will have one coffee with breakfast and another coffee to take outside to smoke a cigarette, and she will also have a napolitana whenever possible.  Jim likes cafe con leche but has switched to Americano because he's trying to avoid dairy.  Nina drinks tea and cannot stand coffee.  They know that I want a cafe con leche and that I like croissants, not napolitanas.  

How can you explain the incredible people you meet along the way?  The people who touch your life in a lasting way, even if you only know them for a few days or even a few minutes.  The hospitalera who dried my soaking wet sleeping bag on our very first day, even though the wait for laundry was hours long.  She took my face in her hands, saw how exhausted and frustrated I was, and said, "I wouldn't want my daughter to sleep in a cold room in a wet sleeping bag."  The random man who stopped Emily and I one day when we took a wrong turn.  "Peregrinas!  Están fuera del camino!"  He then took the time to explain to us where we needed to walk to get back on the path.  José, the owner of the pensión in Sarría, who we first thought was a miserable old grump but who turned out to be cheerful and generous, giving us loads of free pintxos (like tapas) while we sat at the bar for a few beers.  There's Roland, the guy with the donkey who we ran into constantly.

There's Matthew, the firefighter from Texas, who I had an instant connection with.  A classic Texan gentleman mixed with the chivalry you find only in veterans, Matthew is easily one of my most memorable Camino friends.  I won't deny my affection for him, and I'm sure he wouldn't deny his, but it wasn't meant to be.  The Camino is funny like that, bringing people together under such an intense circumstance when we all know it has to end eventually.  We walked with him for a few days before he left to catch up with the group he started with.  When he left, I felt empty for awhile.

There's Pepe, the Italian soccer commentator who we have somehow managed to cross paths with constantly for the last week and a half.  We've only really gotten to know him in the last few days, and the more we see him the more we love him.  There's Dani, the Swiss techie who is in between jobs right now.  He is one of the sweetest guys I've ever met, and extremely intelligent.  There's the group of Korean teenagers and their teacher, who never stop giggling.  I don't know how they're so damn happy all the time, but I love them for it.  

The people on the Camino are unlike any group of travelers I've ever met.  We all have the same end goal, but we all have different reasons.  We all have different bodies and different limitations, different needs and different desires, but we're all the same at heart, where it matters.  The Camino is meant to put everyone on the same level.  It doesn't matter your heritage, your age, or your net worth: we all have to face many of the same struggles.  We all get blisters at some point, we all have to deal with the pouring rain, and we all have to sleep in a room with a hundred other people, thirty of whom are snoring.  

At the end of the day, a pilgrim is a pilgrim, and it's a state of being that challenges me to find the right words.

K

Pedrouzo, Spain

The ants go marching one by one

There's this thing we have started to call the Pilgrim Dance.  When we get up from sitting down for longer than ten minutes, we all look like we're 100 years old.  We clutch at one hip or the other, stumble for the first few steps, and for the next minute or so we walk like we have sticks up our asses.  It's what distinguishes pilgrims from locals, as if the sexy hiking pants and crocs weren't enough of a giveaway.

Ahh, dignity.  How I miss you.

There's the Pilgrim Dance, hairy legs, sock tan lines, hanging my delicates next to the tighty-whities of an eighty-year-old German guy, shamelessly sticking needles into my toes, singing in the community showers, and ants in my pants. (Oh, I never told that story? Yeah, don't squat to pee in a field without thoroughly stamping the grass down first.)  I walk around these cute European towns, browsing boutiques and drinking coffee in beautiful plazas, in THIS: 

Look closer:

There's having scrapes on your knees from trying to pick blackberries, getting a bruise from hitting the same doorknob three fucking times within ten minutes, and walking around for hours without noticing your greasy orange chorizo lipliner.  There's attempting to flirt with a cute guy and then realizing your entire back is noticeably covered in sweat from your pack.  One time at a cafe, I smiled at a cute local guy on my way out the door.  I bent to pick up my pack and imagined myself gracefully swinging it onto my back to make a grand exit, but was completely overtaken by the Pilgrim Dance and ended up tripping over my own walking stick and knocking the chair over with my pack.  And every day I commit the greatest fashion faux pas of all time:

The funniest part?  Apparently in Venezuela, if you wear socks and sandals it means you have diarrhea.

Stay classy, San Diego.

K

Vega de Valcarce, Spain