Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
“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 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.
My wife and I are in training mode. We walk 10 or 12 miles, several times per week, practicing for our second Camino. We will walk across Spain soon, and we need to get in shape.
The Camino is out there. Still existing. On the other side of the world. I wake up each morning, stumble into my kitchen to make coffee, and I think about how right now, it’s still there.
There was a big group of us walking together. Jamie and I were the eldest of the group. Most of these pilgrims were in their teens or mid-20s. They were kids, far from home. And strays of all species have a tendency to follow my wife.
I remember who I was as I walked the ancient trail. I remember those 40 days. Living out of a backpack. Hardly any possessions. Two T-shirts. One pair of boots. I had a fiddle on my back.
It was our first day off. We had been walking the Camino for three weeks, upwards of 18 miles per day, until our feet bear a striking resemblance to USDA-approved ground ch
We are walking the Camino de Santiago when the power goes out in Spain. At first, we do not know the power is out, of course. The only thing we notice is that our phones have quit working.
Every day is the same. You wake up; you walk. Eat, sleep, walk. Repeat. Also, you look for cheesecake. You are always looking for cheesecake. You’ve learned that Spain has the best cheesecake in the known solar system.
It was a little church. Off the main path. And you don’t see many “little” churches on the Camino. Most churches here are Gothic monuments. Stone gargantuans, with bells, towering medieval doors, and golden altars. This wasn’t one of those.
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.
People from all over the world are traveling to this sacred place. Farmers and peasants. Lords and ladies. Rich and poor.