Dispatches Del Camino (#6)

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 trail. Beneath bridges. On the front stoops of fire departments. The backyards of churches. We’ve heard of some pilgrims sleeping in sheep pastures.

As middle-aged pilgrims on the Camino, my wife and I already accepted that we would be sleeping in some unsavory places. But I didn’t think I would actually wind up in a sheep pasture.

Thankfully, a local cab driver took mercy on us and helped us find a hotel outside town. He had no reason to help us. There was nothing in it for him. And yet he took 45 minutes out of his day to make phone calls, scare us up a room, and give us a ride.

This is because we are pilgrims. And in Spain, they do not treat pilgrims like lowly tourists. Those who walk the Camino are held with reverential respect. You can see it in locals’ faces when you tell them you are walking to Santiago.

“Dios, te bendiga,” many of them reply. Which is Spanish for, “God bless you lovable American clowns.”

 

And now. Here I am. Homeless in Spain. We have no guarantee of a bed or shelter for the weeks ahead. I feel foolish. I feel ashamed. I feel stupid. I should’ve planned better. I should’ve done something different. I should’ve… I don’t know.

The older woman bartender comes to me and speaks in Spanish, “You are here to watch parade, no?”

“No,” I reply. “Well, yes. Sort of.”

She looks at me quizzically. She can tell I am crestfallen, sunburned, and exhausted.

“We don’t usually get Americanos in our village,” she says. “This is why I ask.”

“The reason I’m here,” I say, “is because I have nowhere else.” I gently spin my beer glass in its condensation ring. “Today, I literally walked the streets of Spain like a beggar, empty handed, begging for help from complete strangers. I feel kind of ashamed.”

Her eyes are soft. “Mijo. You are very brave.”

“I’m very stupid. Walking the Camino during Holy Week.”

“Not estupido,” she says in a soft voice. “Not to me, and not to the millones of ángeles and saints who surround you.”

I look around me. The room is mostly empty. Ben Hur is winning the race. A guy buys a carton of Luckys from the cigarette machine. The parade is beginning outside.

“I don’t see any ángeles,” I say.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “They see you.”