Dispatches Del Camino
What is God?
This single question underpins all things on the Camino de Santiago, a trail inhabited by us full-time pilgrims whose lives are contained in backpacks.
Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
What is God?
This single question underpins all things on the Camino de Santiago, a trail inhabited by us full-time pilgrims whose lives are contained in backpacks.
Rain. It never stops coming. Rain, rain, rain. Sometimes it seems like all it does is rain.
It’s been raining for two days now on the Camino Primitivo. And there is no end in sight. Spanish news channels on television, which are wonderful media organizations whose reporters dress exquisitely, speak rapidly, and replay the same four news stories every six minutes, are predicting rain each day this week.
The albergue looks like a mountain chalet. We are snugly situated deep within the Fonfaraón Mountains, which climb high into the Spanish sky, separating us from an entire civilization below the cloud line.
Here atop the world, the mountain peaks look like incarnations of the Appalachians, with a fuzzy, green carpet-like texture, rounded edges, and swooping valleys that gather pools of fog like a white lake.
We will be hiking this today.
The village of Tineo is bathed in thick morning fog. The impenetrable miasma is smothering the Sierra de Tineo mountains like a damp dishrag.
The miasma is really spectacular. I have always wanted to use the word “miasma.” But I’ve never had a reason to use it until now. I’ve gone for many, many years with a burning passion to use this word, just like actual authors do in actual classic literature, but alas, I’ve never had the opportunity. Until today. But now that I’ve used “miasma,” I don’t feel any elation inside. In fact, I feel nothing. It was not the exuberant vocabularial experience I was hoping for.
“Take time, pilgrim,” the old Frenchman said. “Take time to stop and smell every flower, not just some of them.”
He was old. If not in body, in soul. What little bit of white hair he once possessed had vanished. So had some of his teeth.
A rooster crows as day breaks over the surrounding Cantabrian Mountains. He crows every few moments, singing an anthem to morning, his voice ringing throughout the tiny village of Cornellana.
I am in a bar, drinking morning joe. My bartender is working his buns off.
Our first day walking the Camino. We leave our inn at Oviedo a little after daybreak. There are no people on the streets. No cars. Only one stray dog, dutifully cleaning his privates, and one old man hosing down a section of street in front of his shop while smoking a cigar the size of …
We find a table in the old Spanish café and order two cafés con leche. I order our breakfast by repeatedly tapping the menus and saying in English, “Uh, I’m sorry, I don’t know this word…”
My waitress finds my ordering technique amusing.
Our Father, which art in heaven, hi. How are you doing? How’s the family? Have you made any progress on that request I made earlier about Florida Powerball?
2:16 p.m.—We step off the plane in Adolfo Suárez Madrid-Barajas Airport, and it is pure chaos. People crowd this ginormous public space like ants swarming a fallen Tootsie Pop. This place is like Black Friday at Walmart, only with less exposed thong underwear.
My granddaddy said you can tell a lot about a person by the way they treat a dog. Someone who treats a dog badly, is a bad person. A person who treats a dog with regard and deference is a good egg.
Right now, my wife is holding our blind coonhound, Marigold. She holds our rescue adoptee like a baby. Not like a dog.
My Uber driver is in her mid-30s, and she is friendly. She is driving us to our hotel, and we are stuck in gridlock traffic.
There is a network of tattoos adorning her limbs. As she drives, I notice a thumbprint tattoo on her neck. I ask about this tattoo.
My packing list for the Camino:
Hiking boots. The route we will be taking to Santiago this year is called the Camino Primitivo. It is the oldest route to Santiago. The first pilgrim to hike this particular route hiked it 1,200 years ago, shortly after the birth of Willie Nelson.
Pa Ingalls’ fiddle was sitting on the table of the museum archive room. Still in its case.
The curator, Tana Redman, smiled at me.
“You’ll need to wash your hands before you play it,” she said.
Homewood, Alabama. When you walk into Salem’s Diner, it’s the people you notice first.
Visitors often walk through this high prairie farmhouse and say they can feel her. They don’t know how. They don’t know why. But she’s here.
The little boy was already on this plane when we boarded. He has a backpack bigger than he is. And a stuffed animal. He is maybe seven years old.
We passengers can hear him talking to anyone within earshot. He is loud. He is chatty. He does not use an indoor voice.
The kid is nothing but friendly.
There is an ancient proverb that says, “The couple that does not record audiobooks together stays together.”
These are wise words. I know this now because recently, I wrote a book with my wife. This past weekend, Jamie and I recorded the audiobook version together, which was a lot of fun. And anyway, now I’m scheduled for dental surgery.
There is a US law stipulating that whenever you’re having a good day a pharmaceutical commercial must appear.
It will be a frightening one, too. Sometimes the same startling commercial will be replayed three, four, maybe five times. That’s the law.