Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
Sean Dietrich 
We arrive in the city of Burgos after a 14-mile walk. Although it feels like 14 million miles. Today is hot. We are sunburned, thirsty, and our skin is covered in a fine layer of crystalized salt from evaporated sweat.
You do three things on the Camino each day. You walk. You talk. You stop to pee.
We all stand outside the small market in Villamayor. There are about twenty-five, maybe thirty of us hapless, fatigued pilgrims. Sweaty and covered in grit. All wearing the same clothes we were wearing two weeks ago.
Grañón is a small village dating back to 885. The stone streets are empty this afternoon. Siesta is underway, the Spanish world has shut down to observe their daily food coma. There are seemingly no rooms in all of Spain tonight. There are 40 percent more pilgrims walking the Camino, we are told, than there …
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.
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.
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.
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.
The stone doorway arch above us features carvings of angels and demons which date back to Roman times. Eight angels surround Christ, who is looking straight at me as though He is saying, “‘No room’ at the inn?—Now where have I heard THAT before?”
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.
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.
There are hundreds of pilgrims. Very few speak English. We are all from different countries, age groups, and walks of life. And yet, somehow, although we are foreigners sojourning in a strange land, we all manage to—this is beautiful—gripe about how slow the line moves.
The inn where we are staying is manned (womanned?) by two French women who speak no English and almost no Spanish.
Amazingly, spirituality is not a “weird” and awkward subject for the people of Madrid, it’s normalized. Here, people seem to treat the topic of religion as cordially as you’d discuss college football.
Daddy used his belt buckle to pop open his Coke. He used his teeth to tear open the peanuts. Then he carefully dumped the nuts into the mouth of the bottle. He handed the bottle to me. “Here,” he said. “This is something my daddy used to do. Try it.”
I receive a lot of remarks in the form of emails, private messages, obscene hand gestures, etc. There’s no way I could answer all comments individually. So occasionally, I compile commonly asked questions and answer them in this column.
Dear God,
It’s me again. Actually, I don’t know what you want me to call you. For all I know, you might prefer to be called something Hebrew, Latin, or maybe you don’t want to be called anything at all.
Today, my wife and I will become pilgrims. We will walk the breadth of Spain, upwards of 500 miles, over Pyrenees Mountains, on foot, to visit the remains of the apostle James.
There were ghosts everywhere. That’s what I kept thinking, while standing on Shiloh battlefield. Ghosts. You could feel them. You could almost hear their fraternal laughter. You could smell their gunpowder.
My dog, Marigold, and I have been walking a lot lately. It’s not easy, walking. We have very few “good walks” inasmuch as walking in a straight line is impossible when you can’t see.