The day started at 5:00 AM as I pored over the Camino guidebook in the communal kitchen where leftover risotto and minestrone made a satisfying breakfast. Tracy took a day off, sorting out the bus to Pamplona as I went over the Arga River bridge and back onto the Camino.
I haven’t used walking sticks before but after 3 days of hoofing up and down the Pyrenees I was ready to give them a try. I borrowed Tracy’s and they definitely make me go faster.
The rain started as I neared the outskirts of Pamplona where I found a produce market. Nectarines and a sit down on the stoop of a vacant storefront got me rested and ready to press on.
I’ve been trying to ponder some things each day and today it was the scallop shells Tracy and I wear on our packs. Many wear store-bought symbols of this pilgrimage but we wear smaller, darker shells from the beach in VA where we spend time. They are dark because they spent their lives bayside, then sank into the mud and were buried in sand as Assateague shifted westward. Finally they emerged oceanside into the turbulent surf to perform this small but significant service on the Camino. I found that a metaphoric garden, open to many interpretations.
As the police captain said in The Way, “this is a place (long pause) of much significance.”
I found Tracy as I walked through the ancient city gate into Pamplona. We lunched under an overhang on the cathedral steps, finishing the manchego cheese, pate and a baguette from our packs. Our digs for the night at the Jesus y Maria albergue are sort of like living in a bus station. But that’s the life of a pilgrim. I’m starting to feel a bit like one.
“How did you hear about El Camino de Santiago?” It’s a question often asked along the trail and, when I answer, I always give credit to our daughter, Juliet. Juliet spent her high school senior year as a Rotary exchange student living with a lovely host family in Baiona, located close to Santiago in the province of Galicia. When she graduated from Gettysburg College, it wasn’t a big stretch for her to want to return to a place she once called home and walk the Camino.
I knew nothing about this, or any other pilgrimage, before 2015. However, since that time and like many others, I’ve become a devotee of the Camino community, the yellow arrows reassuringly pointing the way, the natural beauty, and spiritual essence of Spain.
A volunteer gig in the 15th Century village of Ribadiso last fall sealed my love affair with this northwestern corner of Spain. I’m passing through my old stone village today. My village. When I walk into its only cafe, I greet Alfonso, the farmer, and Clara who runs the cafe. I’m wearing my Nepali hat so it takes Alphonso a minute to recognize me. We exchange greetings and hugs before they both return to their work.
Two women from Ithaca are volunteering and living in the apartment that Sandra and I shared in October. MariCarmen steps away from the registration window for a big squeeze. There are no pilgrims soaking their feet and resting in the shade as I remember them doing. Alfonso’s cows, Ruby and Pauda, must still be in the barn today. Ponchos on, heads down, the constant river of pilgrims pass as quickly over the 12th Century bridge as the River Iso does under it. I move on as well.
This Camino hasn’t offered as much time for reflection and spiritual connection as past walks. But O’Cebreiro feels like it provides a direct line to God with its 9th Century stone church and the O’Cebreiro Miracle of Santa Milagro.
Instead of walking, I meet up with Victor and climb aboard Luna, the lead horse, for a 2-hour ride up the mountain. Luna knows the way and it’s an easy, enjoyable ride. The melancholic strains of a bagpipe greet us on our arrival, just before the heavens open up. The rain, the ancient stone village, and the bagpipes are all reminders that we are now in the province of Galicia with its strong Celtic customs and influence.
The O’Cebreiro Miracle of Santa Milagro tells the story of a local farmer, a poor but devout man, who braved a blinding snowstorm to attend church services. The parish priest, now forced to celebrate Mass, witnessed the bread and wine turn into the body and blood of Christ. Even the statue of Santa Maria Real is said to have inclined her head.
The Pilgrim Mass begins at 7 pm with Father Paco, a Franciscan priest, who celebrates the service in both Spanish and English.
After Mass, Father Paco invites all of the pilgrims to join him at the altar for a blessing. Pilgrim blessings provide much-needed encouragement to continue walking 12-20 miles a day, especially when the weather is cold and raw. The pews empty as 50 pilgrims encircle the altar and Father Paco hands each of us a rock painted with a yellow arrow. Korean, Dutch, Italian, French, Portuguese, American, and Chinese pilgrims are asked to recite a prayer in their native language, sharing a moment of unity among global diversity. Someone whispers that we are the United Nations of pilgrims. Father Paco takes his time blessing everyone, making us feel special and loved.
O’Cebreiro is also the resting place of the parish priest who reinvigorated the Camino in the 20th Century and helped to mark the path with today’s recognizable yellow arrows. We are now following these arrows in the driving rain, but I have a rock in my pocket to help me find the way.
Ask anyone, I like to explore new places, emphasis on new. So why return to the Camino Frances for a third time?
Each of my three walks on the French Way have fulfilled a very different need, often unexpectedly. My first walk – 500 miles with Juliet in 2015 – was a once-in-a-lifetime journey with my daughter that came at a turning point in my career and in our relationship as a mother and daughter. It was a time that can best be summed up by the word “reinvention.”
Last fall I was on the Camino Frances a second time. Rick and I began walking together in France until, after 10 days, I hopped ahead by train to work as a voluntaria in the village of Ribadiso. For 240 miles and 16 days, Rick walked to me. We met back up in Portomarin and walked into Santiago together. While I loved welcoming pilgrims as part of my volunteer assignment, that Camino reminded both of us that we are “better together.”
This third Camino is about the power of community. Dan Mullins, singer/songwriter and podcaster, has connected this group of pilgrims from five countries for an Camino filled with music, friendship and mutual support.
There is illness on the trail and within the group. Someone disappears only to rejoin us a day or two later, boots laced up. Injuries, some related to the wear-and-tear on bodies, take their toll. One of our pilgrims from Cape Cod, a veteran hiker, took a nasty fall that required 10 stitches. Word spread down the rocky trail and the nurses in the group flew into action, heading up the steep incline with medical supplies and expert care. It was a remarkable reminder that we are not alone in this world, but members of a community filled with love and concern.
I do understand that there is joy in familiar places, places like the donativo albergue – Gaucelmo – in Rabanal del Camino run by the English Confraternity of St. James. Traditional tea and biscuits are served in a garden oasis. The hospitaleras send us off with strong coffee and warm knit hats. If that doesn’t say love, I don’t know what does.
I’m also grateful to return to the Cruz de Ferro, a humble place of forgiveness and grace, to remember why I came on this journey in the first place. Each day we walk, God etches his love in our hearts by enveloping us in all of the free beauty of Spain.
Just last night, a friend shared something I will not soon forget: we are all just walking each other home.
It’s an easy walk from the bus station to the Globetrotter Hostel on the Calle Paloma just off of Cathedral square. The 200-mile walk with Dan Mullins and his group begins on Monday so I have two days to explore this historic city and meet up with my new mates for the next 15 days.
The WhatsApp group chat provides initial introductions so we know how to find each other. I pass a table of familiar faces and stop to say hello. It’s a lovely and lively mix of Australians, Americans, and Canadians.
Around the corner is Casa Botines, one of only three buildings designed by Antonio Gaudi outside of Catalonia. Gaudi took his inspiration from the natural world and, in the case of the Botines House, from the story of St. George and the Dragon. Casa Botines is the dragon! Once you know this, you can spot the features of the dragon from the shingles that resemble scales to the sharp claws that top the iron fence.
“Man does not create: he discovers and takes that discovery as a starting point.” It’s said that Gaudi’s creativity overwhelmed the field of architecture at the time, especially when you think about what the world looked like in 1841 when construction began.
The Spanish siesta leaves the cobblestone streets empty as I wait for the Cathedral to reopen. I find the pilgrim route out of town and Bar Lola where the group will meet for Dan’s first concert.
When Rick visited the Leon Cathedral, he was struck by the soaring stained-glass windows that send your eyes up to the heavens. This Gothic masterpiece stands on the site of Roman ruins and boasts one of the best examples of medieval stained glass in the world. The cathedral has been restored and rebuilt many times due to its construction and unstable foundation. Crumbling statues of saints and kings line the adjacent cloisters as towers and flying buttresses loom overhead.
My exploring is making me thirsty so I catch up with Dan’s group over tapas and Bierzo white wine. We crowd the dining room at the Covent Garden Hostal before moving on to a midnight concert at Bar Lola. The owner and his son are famous in these parts and have the crowd enthusiastically singing along to flamenco favorites. It’s a good thing I’m not walking tomorrow. 😉
My flight touches down in Madrid ahead of schedule, good for me because I am cutting it close. I have booked a private tour of the Museo Nacional del Prado, home to Spain’s royal art collection. I don’t want to be late for my date with Titian, Velázquez – who they call the painter of painters – Goya, and El Greco.
After a long hug from my favorite guy, I settle in and eventually catch up with Nell and Mary Grace at the airport gate. They are headed to Spain for a mother-daughter trip. On the other side of the Atlantic, I shout a quick goodbye – I hope I say goodbye! – as I grab my pack and run looking for the car I’d lined up ahead of time.
Once I find my driver, he can’t remember where he parked his car so we wander around the parking lot for 10 minutes until he does. Did I say I was in a hurry? 😂 Next I’m dropped at a gas station and told to hop into an EV that’s just finishing its charge. I finally figure out that, because my flight landed early, my real driver wasn’t quite ready so he sent a surrogate to pick me up and bring me to him. It is all a little confusing at the time, especially as the clock ticks down, but I make it to the Prado with minutes to spare.
Rick and I visited the Prado in 2010 after visiting Juliet and her Rotary host family in Baiona. Due to an air traffic controller’s strike that strands us in Madrid, we spend the next three days in and out of the capital’s world-class museums. At the Prado, we are approached by a distinguished-looking gentleman in the three-piece suit who offers us a private tour. We smile and say no thank-you, but he persists, sharing his credentials as an art historian. We agree and, for a modest fee, Alexander unlocks the secrets of what would have been an overwhelming and confusing collection. Let’s just say he blows our minds and, ever since, we try to book a private tour at the big museums. Try it the next time you have the chance.
Today’s tour with Delfi is equally remarkable. The museum is more crowded than I remember and there are no pictures allowed inside. (These are taken with permission from the museum’s website.) After nearly four hours of head-spinning Spanish history, I’m ready for fresh air and sunshine.
A line snakes outside the door of a neighborhood fish restaurant. Sometimes a line is a good omen so I join the locals. I wash down my grilled whiting with a copa de rioja. A man from the next table sees my Camino pins and asks if I am walking. My Spanish is limited, I’m sorry to say, but we make ourselves understood and part with a smile and Buen Camino.
In the Puerta del Sol, I sit in the sun and listen to an opera singer busking with a six-piece band. A Korean couple from California asks me about the Camino – again, the hat pins! – and we share a few light-hearted moments on a beautiful afternoon in Madrid. The Camino has a wonderful way of connecting people from all over the world. I’m looking forward to this very connection with a new community of friends, many of whom I will meet tomorrow in León.
One-of-a-kind experiences are irresistible. These are the ones that don’t come along very often. When they do turn up, it’s hard to say no.
In two weeks, I am returning to Spain to join Australian singer-songwriter and storyteller Dan Mullins on his Musical Camino from León to Santiago. Dan has been connecting pilgrims from all over the world through his music and podcast.
These 200 miles will feature concerts in extraordinary venues like a medieval wine cellar and under the stars in ancient plazas. “Somewhere along the Way” will be filmed for a full-length documentary about Dan’s personal story of grace and perseverance along with showcasing the history, beauty and culture of Spain. I’m so thrilled to be a part of this pilgrim-led adventure.
I’m also thinking about how to walk this familiar path a little differently, taking time to explore nearby villages, learn more about historical art and architecture along the route, and layer in new experiences.
For example, ever since daughter Juliet hired a horse for the big climb to O’Cebreiro, I’ve wanted to take in those expansive views from the seat of a saddle. Vincent, the owner of the caballos, is a popular fixture on the Camino so I’ll be in good hooves, I mean, hands!
Antonio Gaudi’s fantastical buildings are associated with Barcelona, but three examples of his ground-breaking architecture can be found outside of Catalonia and in towns along the Camino. In Astorga, Gaudi designed the Bishop’s Palace, which houses religious art and a museum dedicated to the Camino. I’ve only admired the building from the outside so it’s time to see the grand interior as well.
In Ponferrada, a Templar castle dominates the town and I’m anxious to peek inside there too. When I walked through in 2015, there was a Templar convention underway. I felt a little underdressed without a flowing white robe bearing the Templar cross.
Nothing will replace my Camino with Rick last fall, an unforgettable experience as a married couple, both walking together and the 17 days we were apart. I’ll miss my favorite musician and partner-in-life on this walk, but I expect the journey will be filled with an exuberant group of pilgrims anchored by music and companionship.
Time to get back to training so that I can walk the miles ahead. My pack is 15.4 pounds so I think I’ve done everything I can to optimize success. Hope you are saying yes to whatever one-of-a-kind adventures make your heart sing.
I pour a cup of water out of each sock. These waterproof socks work as advertised, but only if you get the seal right. Rick and I are walking into Santiago de Compostela in an atmospheric river of rain. Last night, we watched reports about flooding in Santiago, possibly due to ancient drain pipes under ancient stone streets. I’m wearing a trash bag over my raincoat but the rain is still winning. Nothing is waterproof except for my socks.
The rain begins to taper off as we walk into the outskirts of Santiago. In another 30 minutes, the bagpipers on the steps of Obradoiro Plaza will come into range and hurry us into the square. My emotions are close to the surface, even though I walked only 200 miles to Rick’s 500-mile trek. After five weeks of walking and volunteering and then more walking, we made it! I considered this Camino to be Rick’s Camino and wanted him to experience it fully. As familiar with the Camino as anyone who hasn’t walked it, it’s been an eye-opening experience for him to now call it his own. He’ll be getting his Compostela at the Pilgrim’s Office later today. I already have one; how many do you need?
We snap triumphal photos and perch along the edge of Obradoiro Plaza with a celebratory beer and tinned scallops, watching pilgrims entering the square and looking for familiar faces.
But the pilgrims currently hugging each other in the plaza are strangers. We can’t find Rick’s Camino family. It isn’t until the Pilgrim’s Mass that evening that we catch up with Frankie from Ireland, Vancouver George, English Mike and Marissa from New Jersey.
The next day is a crazy mix of sun and rain. Caroline will walk into Santiago later today from the Camino Ingles, a 5-day north-south route. We’ll meet her on the plaza shortly after we tour Santiago Cathedral’s rooftop and tower. At the Cathedral, the rain cascades like a waterfall, threatening our chances of getting onto the roof. The guide leads us to the tower first and 20 minutes later, the rain disappears and 20 Spanish-speakers and us step gingerly onto the slanted roof. (We thought we booked the English-speaking tour!)
There’s applause coming from the plaza and we strain our ears to hear a wedding proposal taking place below us. We try to spot Caroline in the crowd but it isn’t until we descend 105 stone steps that we find her big smile waiting for us.
I think about the lessons I learned on this Camino and keep circling back to the word “acceptance,” a concept that resonates on many levels. Rick and I both actively embraced a new experience, the very definition of acceptance. Rick walked nearly 500 miles – 240 miles without me – setting his own pace, making his own friends, and having his own conversations with others and himself. For each of us, the Camino is an individual journey of personal growth and transformation.
My volunteering gig in the Albergue de Los Peregrinos was something new for me. For 15 days, I was anointed as an ambassador for American Pilgrims on the Camino. Sandra and I welcomed pilgrims from all over the world. We helped them find their beds, the showers and lost backpacks. We laughed with them and pointed out our spring-fed pool. I sat with pilgrims and shared their stories, sometimes walking with them to the top of the hill.
Despite the fact that I couldn’t speak more than a few words of Spanish, the village, along with Sandra, Ana and Maricarmen, were my Camino family. I’m still pinching myself about my one-of-a-kind opportunity to experience life in a 15th century village in rural Spain. Steeped in so much history, Ribadiso has been part of the Camino de Santiago for six centuries. To be warmly embraced by the village community, however temporarily, was one of the greatest gifts of this Camino. Most days, I fed Alfonso’s chickens and received two eggs and a kiss on each cheek in return. Ruby and Pauda – Alfonso’s two cows – got used to my calls, even though Pauda was the only one who trotted over for stale bread and a scratch. A smile and an open-hearted disposition was all that was needed to build good will and trust.
Rick and I spent six weeks accepting less-than-ideal conditions: personal cleanliness suffers when you are on the trail and dormitory-style sleeping arrangements demand a whole new level of tolerance. Out of the 30 people you might sleep with each night, you have to accept the loud snorers, early rustlers, and loud talkers. Other basic conditions? Eating tinned fish out of the pack, using a farmers field for purposes other than growing corn, and walking for hours in a river of rain.
In our 60’s, we are also accepting, however reluctantly, the limitations of age. While I worried about whether I’d be able to walk several hundred miles without my body breaking down, this sturdy vessel and my chubby little legs got the job done. A walk like this helps you accept aging bodies, disappearing waistlines, falling faces and knee replacements.
And now we accept that this pilgrimage is over and look for ways to hang onto the mindfulness and memories like a fleeting shadow on our consciousness.
Rick is waiting for me at the bus stop in Portomarin. It’s Féria Day in the neighboring town of Melide and the streets are jammed so the bus is late. Still, there he is, shaggy, gamey and all smiles.
Earlier, I hugged Sandra goodbye and caught a ride to the bus stop in Arzua with Lolo Villar, the town taxi driver who waves and beeps at us every time he passes. Which is a lot. Lolo is busy with pilgrims from April through October. He’s always on duty with his million-dollar smile and good cheer. I pay with a lollipop I’ve stashed in my pocket, one for Lolo, one for Rick.
I’d reserved a seat on the 1145 a.m. bus to Portomarin to reunite with Rick and walk the last 57 miles into Santiago together. But the 1145 bus blows past, never even slowing down. An older Spanish woman sees the panic on my face, verifying that I’m not headed to Santiago, which is the opposite direction. “No,” I say. “I’m going to Portomarin,” She reassures me that another bus is coming and waits 15 minutes with me until it arrives, a gesture that I very much appreciate.
I’m the first off the bus and make a b-line for Rick. He tells me about his day walking in the rain as we head up the hill to the Albergue Aqua Portomarin, which sits at the top of the town overlooking the river. After a shower and a rest, we head to the main square where Rick introduces me to everyone. Everyone! He’s been working on remembering peoples’ names. And these names from around the globe are not easy. There’s Elia, the ripped Italian, Roberto, the hulking Spanish cop right out of central casting, and Luca from Rome. Frankie from Ireland and Vancouver George join us for dinner under ancient stone arches. Frankie sees me and calls Rick a “baby-snatcher.” I love this guy!
I question whether I have 17 miles in me the next day. I’ve been 17 days off the trail, trying to stay fit by hiking the steep hills on either end of Ribadiso. I need a little coaxing until the sun rises and I can see my feet. I forgot my headlamp and I’m virtually blind in the pitch black. Rick lights the way. (Is there a metaphor here?)
I’ve booked us in the village of San Xulian do Camino based on a recommendation from a young Italian woman. Between a quaint stone hamlet and bar straight off of a medieval movie set, the recommendation is worth the extra 4 miles we tack onto the day’s walk to get here. We settle in with lively group of pilgrims, oversized hamburgesas and several glasses of sangria.
Galicia is in the northwestern corner of Spain, bordered to the west by the Atlantic Ocean and Portugal to the south. Rain is its middle name. Its low mountain ranges are green with pine forests and commercial fields of eucalyptus, which were introduced for paper production. We walk through stone villages lost in time, passing by small-scale dairy farms and empty fields. Local Albariño vines hang from trellises and I look for witches, part of this region’s folklore and Celtic tradition. If you look at a map, you’ll see Galicia’s proximity to Ireland and understand its Celtic connection.
I am walking back into Ribadiso as a peregrina. I greet the cows by name and am spotted on the bridge by Maricarmen who is happy to see me. I introduce her to Rick and she hands me the key to the apartment with a conspiratorial smile.
There are peppers, onions and hard-boiled eggs in the fridge, along with a few leftover supplies and the remaining beer and wine. I’m in charge of dinner tonight, comfortable in the small galley kitchen. Frankie and George join us with more wine and we laugh and sing and forget to take photos. We are two days from Santiago.
In two days, I’ll catch up with Rick in Portomarin by busing backwards on the Camino by two stages. It’s been a rewarding two weeks serving more than 400 pilgrims from all over the world, but I miss my guy. Rick has now walked more than 400 miles – 427 to be exact – over 26 days. As of today, he’s walked into Galicia, the same region as me and where Juliet lived with her Spanish family 14 years ago but he’s still 40 miles away. That may not sound like much by car, but it’s still several days on foot.
So much walking can chew up your body. The first third of the Camino Frances is considered the most strenuous – crossing the Pyrenees and walking through the mountainous Basque Country. But it’s the continued endurance walking that wears you down physically and spiritually. You build a machine out of your body but, after a month, the machine starts showing its wear and tear. Knees squawk and feet rub raw.
I’m anxious to meet Rick’s Camino friends including Frankie from Galway. A Japanese man named Akae had dinner with Rick a few nights ago and is staying with us in Ribadiso tonight. I recognized him from a photo.
The rhythm of the journey will change once we are on the road together again. I don’t walk as fast as Rick and, while I love to see first light, I’m not willing to walk in the pre-dawn darkness for long. Plus I’m not a big fan of tinned scallops and prefer a more scenic place to rest than in the shade of an abandoned building.
Other than that, we are so ready to be reunited! I love my daily singing postcards but I’d rather have the real deal.
Until then, Sandra and I begin to pack up the apartment and ration the last of our supplies, stretching the fresh produce and wine, but at a loss for how to finish so many eggs and peppers. I feed the old bread to Alfonso’s cows and he insists that I stop by tomorrow for two more eggs.
The rain has held off until today when we send nearly 50 pilgrims into a dark, wet morning. Several families traveling with young children stayed with us last night – all 19 of them get a slow start. Three Swiss lads linger over breakfast. They began biking from their hometown of Basel for a thousand-mile ride through France, Spain and Portugal on their way to Morocco.
The petty cash jar has 110 euros stuffed into it plus change. Sandra and I are happy to send it back to American Pilgrims on the Camino but are told to spend it on something for the apartment or for the ladies. We choose the ladies. Almost every day, they bring us fresh bread baked by Maricarmen’s husband, peppers from her garden, and eggs from Ana’s hens. Arzua’s Gran Bazaar – with its aisles overstocked with cheap clothing, plastic cups, and fake flowers – will not do. We scour the nicer town shops, settling on two oversized wraps that will keep our hospitaleras cozy during the approaching winter days.
One last walk through the village and surrounding fields tomorrow and it will be time to say goodbye to Ribadiso.
We greet all nationalities and ages, old friends who are walking together, newfound lovers, and solo travelers. Their stories are like honey, sweet and sticky on our souls.
By the time they arrive in Ribadiso, many pilgrims have been walking for weeks and have finely-tuned their routines. With systems to keep themselves organized, they don’t need much from two American volunteers. Others come to us feeling fragile, looking for the pack they sent ahead or in need of a quiet place to rest. A Dutch woman calls us Camino Angels, the ones who remind travelers that they are not alone.
Their names may fade in our memories, but we will remember their stories and faces. The many faces of Ribadiso.
Thierry, the grizzled fishing boat captain from Vigo, borrows a soap bar to wash his clothes. He’s been wild camping along the route and was hoping to take care of his laundry. A 74-year-old grandma arrives as part of a three-generation family of pilgrims from Alicante, Spain. My scant Spanish limits me, but Angel’s English is good, telling me he fell in love with a woman from Wisconsin in college. He tries to remember the words of a song from “O Brother, where art thou” and we struggle through a few verses of “Down to the river to pray.”
Rachel from Dublin limps into our vestibule with a painful shin splint after walking from Oviedo. She and I are happy to sit by the river for a quiet conversation after hunting for her bag throughout the village. “The bags always show up,” I reassure her. We find it leaning against the back wall in the restaurant next door.
A Swede tells us that his church in Malmo suggested he visit “paradise on the river”. Pam from Alaska volunteered here this summer and stops back for a night as a pilgrim.
Robert from New Jersey has walked many Caminos but this is the first with his nephew, David, who carries his brother’s ashes. After spilling half of them in Pamplona, he still has enough to spread at the churches along the route as he prays for his brother’s soul.
A trim Dutch couple has been walking for almost five months, beginning their journey by stepping out of their front door in Maastricht. There’s Guillermo from Patagonia, Uta from Germany, Crystal from Poland, Theresa, Corey and Cecilia from the Maritimes in Canada.
Sandra and I are rocks in the river of human pilgrims. Our guests arrive on blazing hot afternoons, attracted by the tranquility of the place, and we guide them gently into the cool darkness the next morning. No one stays for more than one night.
People walk the Camino for many reasons, each pulled to Santiago de Compostela carrying their own burdens and back stories. We try not to judge. Even when we take bets on who will be the last out of the albergue in the morning, we are wrong. Last night we had only 13 pilgrims and expected them to be gone by 7:30. But they were still fast asleep so we returned to the apartment for another cup of coffee before turning on their lights.
And then there are the locals. I wave to Alfonso as he takes his two cows to their fields across the bridge. Sandra coaches me on how to ask their names. Now we know that Vaca #1 and Vaca #2 are Ruby and Pauda. Each night, I feed kitchen scraps to Alfonso’s chickens and take Hershey’s candy to he and his mama. He sends me home with two eggs and a kiss on both checks.
Our village has only one restaurant and no store for groceries or supplies. As the only game in town, El Meson is hopping with early-morning pilgrims. Sonya behind the counter is brusque and grumpy, but only because she is alone and the line for cafe con leche is long. The dirties are stacking up on the counter and tables. I leave a tip bigger than my bill.
The albergue here in Ribadiso is run by two professionals, Maricarmen and Ana, who have seen many American volunteers come and go. Still they don’t lose their enthusiasm for our presence and bring us fresh-baked Galician bread, brown eggs, and peppers from Maricarmen’s garden. We dine on omelets with peppers, salad with peppers, pasta with peppers, and stuffed peppers. We are running out of ideas for what to do with kilos of peppers!
When you think about it, two weeks is a short amount of time to integrate so completely into a community and meet hundreds of people from all over the world. While I’m missing Rick, I’m feeling blessed by the intensity of my volunteer experience and the pleasures of a slower, simpler lifestyle.
One Woman's Camino 