October 3rd, Sahagun to El Burgo Ranero via Caldazilla de los Hermanillos (18 kilometers):

Waking up in Sahagun, in the beautiful albergue, to a beautifully crisp and sharp morning over the city was deeply sad, as I knew this was the day that Susannah had decided to skip ahead in search of gear and Linde and I were going to say our goodbyes halfway along the route, in Caldazilla where I planned on stopping. She was headed further to make her timeline to Santiago de Compostela and I needed to begin slowing down rather than end up in Santiago with four or five days to spare.

Goodbyes are hard for me, and awkward, and as we walked into the main part of the city and came closer to our crossroads, I found myself without words and failing to come up with a way to properly say goodbye to Suse.  I didn’t know at the time that we’d reconnect in Santiago, that I’d be blessed with a fitting reunion a couple of weeks later, and so after she turned left to our right I don’t remember saying much on the walk out of town.  The outer suburbs of Sahagun were quiet and green, and Linde and I soon found ourselves heading along the Via Romana (the scenic route in the guidebook) past farms and along the railroad tracks. 

My mood matched the terrain – spare, empty, and quiet – but when Linde and I finally gave ourselves a break around midday for a Way-side snack I was beginning to feel more companionable.  We stopped in the shade of some small brush-like trees, found places to hide and relieve ourselves, and fell into an easy rhythm together.  In the most basic way, Linde’s insistence on pushing forward and her bright blue pants helped to keep me moving on one of the hardest days I had on the Camino. 

When we walked into Caldazilla, the town was smaller than even my liberal expectations, and the municipal albergue was not yet open.  More than anything, Caldazilla reminded me of some town on a lost highway in the Midwest, flat and open and lonely.  Linde and I saw a friendly face in Kim from Texas at the town bar/café and so we sat down and ordered soup and coffees.  Soon we were joined by Barry from South Africa and his friend from California (whose name I still cannot remember and didn’t write down); in the course of our conversation Kim gifted me her copy of The Imitation of Christ, a medieval meditation on Christianity I’d never before read.  As a threesome, we headed out together, Linde having convinced me to skip Caldazilla and do some off-Camino routefinding to follow her to El Burgo Ranero for the night. 

When Kim decided to keep going toward Reliegos at the crossroads of the Camino and a major highway, at 2pm, I was worried but her bright confidence and ‘can-do’ attitude reassured me – I’ll pick up her story later when I see her in Leon.  Linde and I headed off along asphalt and into the sun and I struggled to remind myself to trust that Providence would see me safe and sound for the evening. 

An hour later when we reached town (and after a confusing hobo-like jump over railroad tracks and wandering through tightly packed, empty neighborhoods), my mood had shifted toward the positive and as we were greeted by the hospitalera at the municipal hostel her enthusiasm and cheer convinced me it had been a good choice to keep going.  I’d get one more night with Rubia, and the unique hostel was beautiful – all mud walls, large tables downstairs, a full kitchen, and bedrooms upstairs underneath exposed roof beams and hosting balconies looking out over the town square. 

Linde and I enjoyed the hot, hot showers (in adjacent stalls, thank you) and sung off key songs… ok, I sang off-key songs, happily, into the steam and tiles.  We found a grocery store and picked out healthy food to cook for dinner… ok, I picked out the food and Linde cooked it, and when we sat down at the huge table we were greeted by a French Canadian couple named Danielle and Jean-Louis who I would see and walk with through the end of my pilgrimage.  As we ate, more pilgrims came in and bustled about; the hostel felt like warm happy home in the cooling night, and when I sat outside on the bench in the square to pray a rosary and look up at the stars that night, I knew I’d made a good choice.  

October 2nd, Caldadilla de la Cueza to Sahagun (22 kilometers):

Leaving Caldadilla that morning, I was excited to end the day in a large city, Sahagun.  My guidebook promised 170,000 people, a seat of great ecclesiastical power with some historically interesting churches and buildings, and with Susannah still in need of pants and myself still in search of the elusive running shoes I wanted to buy, Sahagun promised much.

So… as useful as The Book of John (John Brierley’s guide to the Camino de Santiago – easily the most popular English-language guide) was at times, there were some times when it was significantly wrong.  The more minor of these mistakes being more annoying (hostels open or closed, signs, etc.)… to the more major mistakes being downright dangerous (failing to make clear there are massive stretches of Camino without any water source – an omission that, in the summer heat, could easily kill someone, or mentioning that the path out of Leon takes you through a dangerous neighborhood in the dark, at 7AM).  His description of Sahagun is somewhere in the middle.  

Sahagun is less than 9,000 people, and you can walk straight across it in half an hour.  I know, because we did.  There are no backpacker stores, no tennis shoes to be had, but there is at least one damn fine bakery, a beautiful roadway arch that marks where the Camino leaves the town for greener pastures, a monastery offering compline services every night, and the coolest ‘Santiago Peregrino’ statue I saw throughout Spain:

Before we reached the busy metropolis, however, we walked off and on nearby the roads and through fields, officially entering Leon province.  At Ledigos, we stopped at a bar literally in the courtyard shade of a beautiful, if stark, church, where we joined an older woman named May who wanted to hear our stories as we made hasty work of our coffees, orange juice, and sandwiches. 

May reminded me of my friend Nathan’s mother – graceful, engaging, and interesting to talk to.  Even in her age, she had a distinct and undiluted charm I was drawn to… and then she confessed to us that she was a day-tripper. 

We’d seen, and deeply resented, these creatures before – typically older men and women who were paying to be bused around to the more interesting sites of the Camino, staying in pre-booked hotels at night, and who were let off in the morning without packs to leisurely stroll through the towns as we plodded along, backs aching and feet sore.  I’ll be honest, the day-trippers made me angry.  Not that us pilgrims had any more right to see the Camino, but that, by not participating in the masses, in the communal meals, in the relationships that popped up along the way and the travails and difficulties of each day, the day-trippers cheapened the experience for themselves.  I felt sad for them for taking a guided tour, and that sadness and pity would quickly combine with annoyance at their loudness or rudeness to the Spaniards to turn into real anger.  I wanted them gone. 

But here was this woman who was nice, and kind, and genuinely interested in our stories, and talking to her made it much easier to remember that not only were those tourists aware of their separation from the rest of us pilgrims, but that I had no right to judge.  I would love for my parents to have the opportunity to explore the Camino de Santiago that way – without stress or difficulty, for instance. 

When Susannah, Linde, and I arrived in Sahagun, we’d already committed to trusting our instincts with our albergue for the night, and the first two we walked past didn’t convince us, so we walked a little further from the center of town to find a new, private hostel not listed in my guidebook.  It rested on the same street as a garage and a building supply warehouse, which with the hostel’s brightly colored gardens and buildings, its’ leonese statues lining the entrance, and it’s effusive signs gave it an air of a strange compound.  Walking in I was taken aback by the space – the beds were in an open floor plan but cleverly squared into cubbies of four, and the showers and bathrooms were huge, tiled, and hot.  Laundry service was available, as well as a kitchen, and by the time I’d showered up and lay down for a nap I felt very comfortable indeed. 

Post-nap explorations of the city proved… interesting.  The two churches of historical significance, notably the Iglesia San Juan, were in repairs and unavailable to the public; the city itself seemed shabby and worn down despite plenty of cheerful people walking by on the streets.  As we realized the guidebook’s mistake about Sahagun, we found one of the central town squares and sat down with massive pastries and sodas to watch the kids play and the old Spanish women chase and chastise them.  I wrote in my notebook later that I was grateful for the ability to be disappointed and still happy at where I was, and wanted to remind myself to spend more time opening my heart to discernment in the coming days.  I was starting to wonder and worry if the fun I was having with the Musketeers was distracting me from why I’d come to Spain, and fearing that I might run out of time. 

October 1st, Carrion de los Condes to Caldadilla de la Cueza (18 kilometers):

Leaving Carrion was a shock both physically and emotionally – the morning was bitingly cold and the path quickly took us onto a path next to a busy highway (gas station chocolate and snacks excepted) that jarred me out of my sense of peace and quiet.  Typically the cars and asphalt sections didn’t do much to bother me internally, as much as I may have griped about the physical difficulty of ground-pounding roadways, but that morning was hard.  I both wanted company, and to be alone, to be near familiar things, and to be in the wilderness.  In short, I was being a pain to myself.

It was also the ‘Two Weeks In’ mark, and when I’m traveling that tends to be the time where I first feel homesick and also start to fear the end, of leaving for home.  Do I contradict myself?  Yes, I do. 

Never fear – the sun rose, the Camino connected to an ancient Roman road, the Via Aquitaine, and took us out into farmland and temperatures that brought fall to mind.  Some of the college girls from Castrojeriz were up ahead of Linde, Susannah, and I, and we quickly fell into the same loose group formations that had born us along the meseta and were starting to feel like the natural rhythm of things.  I remember pushing ahead of the group 100 yards or so to get some quiet time, which provided ample opportunity to enjoy the quiet and occasionally turn around, look back at my friends, and appreciate just exactly where I was and who I was becoming.  Kim from Texas, a bold, loud, and kind woman who I’d met outside the hostel in Fromista post-mass, spent some time walking with us in the morning – but her part in my story doesn’t really begin just yet.  She’ll come back, in force, in a few days. 

By the time midday rolls around, the temperatures have risen high enough to put me into a t-shirt and leave me with sweat stains down my back – the original plan was to keep going to a town further, but when we crest the hill and see Caldadilla in the valley, I’m ready to stop.  The Musketeers concede to food, and when we walk into the one (!) hostel in town to take a peek, the buxom and friendly hospitalera tells us there’s only one (!) bar in town around the corner and it’s fine if we want to wait to commit to a room for the night. 

Around the corner is a crowd of pilgrims eating outside in the sunlight – against my better judgment I get coffee and Susannah comes out with giant ice cream Magnums for everyone, resulting in amusing hijinks when they immediately start to melt and the sticks come out.  Ryan and Ralph are there with some very, very hungry Swedes from Fromista.  Allegra is inside and she smiles at me when I duck indoors to find a bathroom – when I come back out again she’s already left and I push those thoughts to the side before they take root and give me fits. 

I tell the ladies I’m committed to staying and it sways them to stick around as well – I immediately feel like it’s a good choice when we go back to the albergue and the hospitalera is amazingly friendly and kind, and there is a large outdoor garden with a shaded terrace to enjoy.  There’s even a terrible English-language mystery novel on the book exchange, so we call it home for the evening. 

For the next few hours, I drift in an out of the patio and the bedroom between naps and reading, and the hostel quickly fills with mostly older folks full of happy energy.  This is the first time I’m introduced to ‘Lotus’, an older woman from Canada who isn’t just free with her body but generously foregoes clothing in the bedroom while having conversations with whoever walks past.  Warning!  There is a snap judgment coming: Lotus strikes me as a strange lady who I will want to avoid, especially as I overhear her talking about some hippy-dippy woo-woo metaphysics. 

I will be proven wrong by this woman.  Multiple times, in multiple cities, in the most humbling ways.  Remember that, folks.

When we go down to the bar for the pilgrim’s dinner, the owner ushers all of us into a very nice dining room with set tables and expensive, plush leather chairs.  I might add that the Musketeers and I have already downed a pint of beer in the bar while we waited on the kitchen to open, and are… slightly tipsy.  For me, this means stopping now and filling my belly with bread and pasta.  For Linde, it means having a glass of wine. 

Things go awry.  As with every Musketeer Meal, there is much laughter and joking around… and, don’t quote me, but I believe that night held a high percentage of raunchy jokes and inappropriate humor.  Let’s just say Linde gets a little too excited.  First a chicken ends up in her lap.  Then, the bottle of wine.  I wish I had pictures, but all I have is a distinct memory of the sound it made and the look on her face – a combination of surprise and mortification.  Linde, you’re a graceful, sophisticated woman – but that wasn’t your night.  I’m glad we could laugh about it together, lady. 

September 30th, Fromista to Carrion de los Condes (21 kilometers):

The morning albergue-breakfast rush was punctuated by a couple of oddities I hadn’t experience on the Camino just yet.  First, the common breakfast was anxiously moderated by one of the hospitaleros, a small, nervous older man who kept running about, moving plates, in a veritable panic that one of the hungry pilgrims might take one too many pieces of crusty toast or an extra pad of butter.  It set me off and so I slammed my breakfast down in haste, eager to get on the road. 

Strange Thing Number Two I was only witness to second-hand: Susannah and Linde come out of their room downstairs clearly terrified and when they told me what happened, I was shocked.  The night before, sometime after I’d left off chatting with the ladies and headed upstairs to my room, probably as I’d blocked out my roommates’ silly chatter with earplugs, the girls were first harassed and then threatened by that same hospitalero who’d annoyed me at breakfast.

The story, as best I can retell it, went something like this: The hospitalero was a pilgrim himself who’d run out of money and was working at the albergue to be able to continue on his pilgrimage.  He was staying in their room and expected the lights to be out 15 minutes before official ‘lights out’ time at 10pm.  There was some sort of multi-lingual power struggle with lights being flipped on, and off, then back on, with the hospitalero finally posting himself as guard over the light.  However it worked out, the result was that the ladies spent a night genuinely concerned about this guy’s stability.

Leaving Fromista and heading toward the roadside senda path was beautiful; there was a blue and orange sunrise behind us and Susannah captured one of mine and Linde’s early morning Literature Lecture Series:

I also had a feeling at the time that this would be the last of my pure Musketeer moments – as the midday sun warmed us along the roadside, river, and greening farmland on the way to Villacazar de Sirga, all of us stretched out in different groups of pilgrims at different paces – sometimes looking for more quiet time, or chatting up new acquaintances, or returning to encourage our old friends.  Jari and I walked together for a while talking about the need to commit to ‘your own Camino’ – for both of us this would mean eventually saying goodbye to our group.  This was the last day I’d see Jari, not at the end of our conversation when she pushed on ahead as I expected, but an hour or so later at the church Virgen del Rio for an impromptu lunch and tour.  Her words were exactly what I needed at that moment, to remember that although I loved being in a group, there would come a time when I’d need to once again venture out on my own in search of those answers and experiences that had brought me to Spain in the first place.  Moreover, to hear from someone else that I wasn’t just allowed to make the Camino my own, but obliged to do so. 

The church at Virgen del Rio was a welcoming, albeit isolated, sight as the path turns left away from the river and makes to follow a small paved road into Villacazar; I had hoped it would be open as I joined several pilgrims for a lunchtime snack, but it wasn’t.  The courtyard quickly collected Jari, Linde, Susannah, and I as well as several others, and right as I was packing my things to move on a man came up in a Peugeot to open the church for us to see inside.  It’s a mystery who notified him we were there, but it’s yet another example of the communities reaching out to make us pilgrims welcome even when it wasn’t convenient.  Jari and I spent time looking at the artwork inside – there was a distinct presence of both St. Michael and St. James Matamoros imagery, heavily featuring swords, which Jari was drawn to. 

Shortly thereafter, Linde, Susannah, and I came into Villacazar minutes before the midday mass at Santa Maria la Blanca XIII; the town itself was once a Templar outpost and the church was massive and majestic.  There was an enormous sculpted depiction of St. James’ life inside, and the mass inside this Templar church held an air and weight of history that gave me goosebumps.  For an unrepentant history geek, the idea of taking communion in front of the same altar as Templars holds a real sense of import and privilege. 

Carrion de los Condes immediately recommended itself – the central square providing ample space and greenery for pilgrims lounging in the sun, a fancy hostel us three decided to share randomly pairing us with my friend Monica from Brazil (I’d first met her in Granon and then again in Navarette as we commiserated over blisters), and a bar selling giant, delicious Magnums. 

Put three worn-out pilgrims into a room with a private shower, with unlimited hot water, and only 4 people to a room and you’ll witness some real gratitude.  I was giddy. 

Monica and I met up to go to the pilgrim’s mass at 7 – yet another example of a beautiful service in a quiet, dark, and welcoming medieval church with a blessing afterwards.  I ended up standing next to a blonde woman with bright eyes and an easy smile named Allegra from New York.

Full disclosure warning: One of my prayers before leaving for Spain was that I wouldn’t get drawn into any Camino romances, or be torn by attraction to other pilgrims, or really spend any time at all thinking about that.  Up until meeting Allegra, and maybe for the first time in my adult life, I hadn’t thought about sex or romance at all – I’d been happy in my platonic relationships and full of the joy of faith, and so it didn’t ever rise to the surface. 

So when I immediately felt this pull (of eyes, of how quickly she came over to introduce herself after the mass, of the held hands during the ‘Our Father’), I was deeply worried.

As the crowd left the church and Monica and I found Linde and Susannah outside with the intention of finding dinner, I was acutely aware of Allegra falling in beside us.  Thankfully, our group quickly erupted into chaos trying to sort out where and how we’d find some food and Allegra slipped off elsewhere.  I remember thinking it was probably a blessing in disguise.  I know myself pretty well, and I know how much I want the romance and the chase… and I know full well how terrible I am at discerning which people are good for me or have good intentions. 

Dinner plans somehow go awry and the places we investigate are either not serving until much later, or unappealing, or too expensive.  Somehow Monica and I end up finding a Waffle House-style greasy spoon through the back of a smoky bar where men are crowded around several TVs watching a soccer game; as soon as we walked through the back doors we were suddenly in Fun Family Town.  The plates are heaped with food and hearty and warm, and the beer comes in a tall cold glass, so I have no complaints at all.  

Monica tells me her story, about her two children and husband back home in Rio de Janeiro and her job in IT, and I’m guardedly grateful that I am sitting there listening to her without expectations or need, rather than wrapping myself up in knots over a (beautiful, energetic, bright)  woman from Manhattan. 

I’ll take that as a smart choice for the evening, and we’ll let the curtains close here.

September 29th, Castrojeriz to Fromista (26 kilometers):

The morning began with a quick breakfast and then the three of us walking with trepidation toward the immediate, massively steep climb from the Rio Odrilla to Alto Mostelares and more meseta beyond.  The skies were a bruised grey that threatened real rain and delivered a solid mist during our climb, and though we worked to conquer the hill with humor and curses, I remember how impressive the valley looked behind us the higher we reached. 

Bicyclists with rugged tires made remarkable efforts to pass by us on the gravel road – their heaving chests doing little to make me envious of their bikes this time around.  At the top, to our surprise, was a lean-to picnic shelter covered in messages from other pilgrims.  Susannah tagged it with the Musketeers’ story for posterity, and before we shouldered our packs to move on, our German friend Martina also came trudging up the hill to join us, glasses fogged up, poncho sailing in the wind.

This is also where my camera battery finally gave up the ghost. 

Dropping down into the valley after more meseta-trekking, we stopped at Itero de la Vega for excellent coffee and sandwiches, plunged into the Tierra de Campos toward Boadilla del Camino and toward our final destination, Fromista.  The Camino alternated between following the roadside and remote farmland; I felt compelled to dwell on the question of discernment and my life with God after the Camino back in the U.S.  Later I wrote that it didn’t feel forced or artificial to think about those things, and the expansiveness of the terrain seemed to match my expanding heart, and the simplicity as well. 

By the time we walked into Fromista, I was excited to explore the Romanesque church Iglesia de San Martin and have dinner with my companeras; we bustled into the municipal albergue fairly early in the afternoon. 

Fromista soon began to go sideways on us – the general feeling at the albergue was disconnected and cranky, the people there seemed both prone to complain and inconsiderate of others, which wasn’t helped by the grumpiness of the workers.  I ended up in a separate room from the ladies, sharing a bedroom with several very loud, very technology-laden young backpackers who seemed less like pilgrims and more like typical hostel-goers.  When I walked in, there was an ongoing argument about electrical plug-in politics and I struggled not to judge my roommates based on that fact alone.  Not judging became harder as, throughout the evening, the conversations I overheard ranged from drunken frivolity to borderline sleaze. 

Showered and shorn, Linde, Susannah and I headed out in search of food and are quickly disappointed – the first restaurant we walked into rudely turned us away with a brusque “No food today!” despite the menu posted outside.  We end up ordering pizzas (microwave oven pizzas, to be exact) from a bar around the corner at the crossroads – the weather had become clear and despite this impression of rudeness from the town it was a good meal.  Two girls, a guy, and a pizza place – am I right?

The church I wanted to explore was closed and my camera was dead, but I remember it being isolated on this wide stone courtyard – a building consecrated in 1066, set apart, with the town and the Camino flowing around it like a stream.  We found out there was going to be a pilgrim’s mass at the other medieval church in town, down around the street toward the cluster of private hostels we’d passed up earlier, and I made the decision to go. 

I almost didn’t.  I almost went in search of a beer or ice cream or a nap; I almost allowed my impression of the town to convince me the church service would also be cold and unfriendly… but, for whatever reason, I didn’t. 

I walked down early to make time to pray a rosary, and remember thinking that I can easily recall a time when the rosary felt awkward and difficult.  These days it feels easy, natural, and deeply rewarding, and at some point along the Camino I fell into the habit of beginning the day with a rosary for a specific purpose or specific person.  Now that I’m back, I miss the fact that there was a time in every day when it was easy to pray a rosary.  It fit seamlessly into the day. 

The mass in Fromista was beautiful.  I remember explaining to Linde the different sections of the liturgy, and realizing first that I felt comfortable following along in Spanish even when I didn’t immediately pick up on the words and responses, and also that my sense of grumpiness and impatience from earlier probably came from needing to go to mass, that my heart was aching for it, that it was becoming a critical part of my daily existence. 

The priest was kind in his expressions and words, and the blessing he offered to us pilgrims after the liturgy brought me to tears.  I was becoming accustomed to being singled out and recognized with love and compassion by the priests and congregants of towns along the Camino, but when this priest crossed my forehead and spoke the blessing, I again felt that sense of deep spiritual ‘largeness’ I can’t attribute to just the event or just the circumstances. 

I lingered behind afterward to have the priest stamp my credencial, and it was hugely frustrating not to be able to talk to him in Spanish, to thank him for the mass and the blessing. 

Walking out into the brisk night air and the cobblestone street, I saw the girls up ahead and ran up behind them with happy yell, throwing my arms around their shoulders because I felt so much love for them and for the world in that moment.  (In my head, this is a starlit, John Hughes-style End Credits moment, with a swell of music – definitely a Cat Power song.  In slow-motion, with a final freeze-frame.  Don’t you judge me.)

So that’s how my night ends in Fromista.  The ladies have a significantly divergent story to tell, but that can wait until the morning. 

September 28th, Hontanas to Castrojeriz (12 kilometers):

I've probably said all I need to say about the Meseta, but I'll say more anyway.  The terrain between Hontanas and Castrojeriz is largely the same as the day before, and my heart swings back and forth between wanting the visual excitement of Burgos again and taking comfort in the gentle, grey-skied vistas in front of me.  The landscape imposes its' own element of tranquility, and even the people with whom we cross paths seem to me to be subdued and quieter than normal.

We are not quiet, mind you.  Although Jari takes off ahead and returns to us in various fits and starts, as is her nature, the Musketeers and I are loud and boisterous, full of laughter and jokes and inappropriate humor.  There are many, many times we stop in search of a place for one of us to go to the bathroom only to realize that when the landscape is flat and featureless, you are more or less shit out of luck.  One of the Musketeers (who, for purposes of dignity and mystery, will remain nameless) spends a good 30 minutes in search of a small hillock or knoll to hide behind so she is seen by neither Linde and I nor the tractor in the distance.  It's crude but hilarious and I can't underscore how great it feels to be able to laugh at these things with these people.

Despite the raunchiness and volume on the outside, I'm quiet inside.  There continue to be moments along the Way when I forget about everything that conspired to get me to that place, to Spain at that time, when everything feels natural and correct in the deepest sense.  There are moments when I forget everything else - that a couple of weeks prior I was still at work, sleeping on a cot in Athens, that it was still summer, that I have a phone and a Jeep and a whole life 5,000 miles away.  There are moments when walking carries the same ritualistic emotion as the mass - at once sacred and deeply natural (saying 'yes' to that feeling of correctness in the mass is a large part of how I ended up Catholic).  There are moments when I feel fully inhabited with the present, with myself held in balance between my heart and my joy.

In the Meseta these moments stretch out and become minutes or hours, and in those times I feel so close to God it's physically overwhelming.  My eyes well up, I want to either scream in delight or curl up into a ball until it passes, and I can't decide if that feeling is immense consolation or immense fear.  Whatever it is, it comes with immense gratitude and sorrow that I've ignored God through much of my life.

I am inherently uncomfortable talking about mysticism, but I believe this is a prayer being answered.  I can find, even now, scores of journal entries from my 20s that ache for and demand a singular purpose, a direction, a trajectory toward something or some goal that is larger than me.  I've tried, and failed, to force that purpose in different ways; I've prayed to find it for years.  Let's be honest, I've prayed for a giant neon sign from God that says "Be a _______, and you will be joyful and your life will have meaning."  So far it hasn't happened.

But there, with this overwhelming physical presence of God, I have an answer.

Bad news, kids - that answer was, and remains, nonverbal.  The closest I can get is something along the lines of "THIS!" and "YES!"  For a person who is, by nature, steeped in words... this is deeply unsettling.

There are plenty of 'things' that also happened that day - following the Camino through the ruins of a medieval church and gateway that now house a hostel, where I was desperate for a toilet and rejected because their pipes were broken, where Jari suddenly appeared with a guitar in hand laughing and playing it well, the surprising church/museum on the outskirts of town where Linde asked me about iconography and I had no answers, the strange worm-like layout of Castrojeriz that felt both alien and lonely and encouraged us back to the gorgeous hostel to cook dinner and cram into the tiny upstairs kitchen, the drama between another set of pilgrims that still strikes me as funny ("I told her, I like the sound of silence!"), the fact that Linde cooked for us by herself and asked for nothing in return.

Once again, I remember taking time to look at the dark landscape stretching down and away from our hostel window to the south, and the night sky full of stars above, before consoling myself to sleep, and the end of another day.

September 27th, Burgos to Hontanas (34 kilometers):

Since I started the Camino, I’d been hearing people talk about the Meseta – a long, mostly flat region of grain fields, sunflowers, and farmland that defines the terrain between Burgos and Leon.  For the most part, I’d heard about its’ desolation and loneliness, the lack of landmarks and the empty quietness that would follow pilgrims for mile after mile.  

For the record, the Meseta was my favorite segment, by far.  The skies opened up across the entire horizon, peppered with clouds high in the atmosphere, and try as I might I couldn’t capture the sense of largeness and distance, or the deep blues and intense yellows of the landscape.  It was literally humbling, it felt much like walking into the wilderness in a physical, frontier sense, and it was here that I felt the first, deepest stirrings of God’s voice.  

The plan of the day was to walk from Burgos to Hornillos del Camino with Susannah and Linde, and so we set off from Castle Peregrino early in the morning full of energy and sarcasm.  It was brutally cold by comparison to my earlier walks, but the company and chocolate kept my spirits up as we left the city suburbs and made our way to Rabe de las Calzados to stop for brunch.  At the café there we found a new use for John Brierley’s guidebook (aka, the Book of John):

Climbing the 200 meters or so onto the Meseta effectively removes you from civilization, and although my feet still hurt and my body was aching, I found myself in good energetic company with the Musketeers (and Jari) and all the random folks we run into along the way, headed to Santiago.  Sometime in the middle of the day I snapped what may be my favorite picture of the entire trip – it seems to capture that joyful energy I remember from the Meseta, how we were dirty and tired but cheerful, together at times and apart at others, all moving toward the horizon and our sense of purpose:

As we approach Hornillos, the steep downhill abuses my legs and when we walk into town, my physical pain has left me convinced there won’t be enough room in the one albergue there.  There are beds left, however, my company decides they want to go another 12 kilometers to Hontanas instead because Hornillos doesn’t seem all that impressive.  

This is one of my decision points – I’m tired, I’ve been set on stopping in Hornillos for the past couple of hours, and although I know by now to trust my gut when it comes to hostels, the prospect of two to three more hours’ hike leaves me literally angry at my friends.  I feel trapped – stay here, alone, or punish myself to stay together.  Rather than commit, I punt by demanding some nap time on the steps of the church while they eat lunch and I weigh my options.  

If there’s one thing I can do well, it is sleep in any and all circumstances, so stone steps aside, I caught a solid nap and wake up ready to walk on.  It’s not easy, it’s not fun, and I’m worried the entire time that when we shuffle into Hontanas at 5 or 6 that evening we’ll be out of luck for beds.  But I keep telling myself to trust in Providence, and the gals do a fantastic job of keeping us all motivated, and we make it to town together.  It’s a good choice.  

We’re placed in the overflow building, which has its’ own showers and bottom bunks, and we are basically alone.  Immediately after showering up, I realize I can’t get myself warm and so I pile on the layers to go to dinner across the street, but by the time the waitress comes around I know I’m fighting some sort of sickness: I’m shaky, feverish, can’t concentrate, and I keep having hot and cold flashes.  My natural instinct is to go back to the beds and pass out, but the Musketeers more or less force me to eat the first dish (chicken soup, no less) first.  Sharing the end of our table are several people from the U.S., a couple of very nice brothers who want to start a conversation but between my illness and ability to concentrate, it falls a bit flat.  I feel guilty – it’s not how I want to welcome other pilgrims at all – but try as I might, I can’t rally.

Then Jari asks Susannah and I about the difference between Catholics and Protestants, and I get sucked in immediately.  You know how I like history, and as I’m explaining the roots of church history (in broad, very basic terms), I end up using a napkin to draw out a timeline with ballpoint pen.  After a while, Jari interrupts me to point out that, while talking about the church, I’ve lit up and become energetic again.  It might have been the soup, or not, but her timing strikes home.  

For most of my early adulthood, I fought against the idea that I was good at the things people kept telling me I was good at (teaching, patience, compassion, listening, basically showing care for others) and fought hard to convince myself I was better at the things I ultimately don’t have the heart for (aggressiveness, being ‘high speed’, whatever).  The past year has taught me on a more fundamental level that I can accept who I am in that regard and, when I do and when I embrace those areas – follow God’s gifts, as it were – I am able to live joyfully and easily, without the self-doubt and self-questioning I have otherwise.  

Pursuing that gift, as I understand it to be more God’s direction than my own, is a large part of why I went on pilgrimage – to see where it leads now, to commit, to accept and let go of whatever I think is best.  Let’s face it, that shit don’t work.  

So to hear it succinctly named by a person who I’ve only known for 24 hours scares me a little bit.  Ok, a lot.  It’s an experience I’ll have again and again in the coming weeks on the Camino – being asked, in different ways, if I’m interested in religious life or whether or not I’ve ever considered seminary.  The first time it happens, given that after that time in Los Arcos I haven’t talked about it explicitly, it’s pretty unsettling.  

The next morning when I woke up, I felt fine.  We’re only planning on going 15 kilometers or so the following day from Hontanas, so we can have a leisurely breakfast, and I remember how the conversation was both intense and fun with my beloved Musketeers.  In fact, if I remember correctly, breakfast is the first time the analogy clicks in my head and is mirrored by Jari’s declaration that I should be a priest, Linde should be a caregiver, and Susannah is our heart and our glue.  Look it up: Aramis, Athos, and Porthos all in a row like magic.  It damn near knocked me off my chair, and still does.

To the Musketeers – I love you dearly.  I love Susannah's fearlessness, Linde's kindness, and Jari's relentless sense of curiosity.  I miss our laughter and ridiculousness, I miss how well we dealt with the hard parts while making it all seem a giant Charlie Foxtrot, I miss our arguments and sour moods, I miss the times coffee would already be waiting and paid for when I got to the café, I miss the times I could pay for y’all’s as well, I miss walking ahead and walking behind, I miss the endless search for pharmacies, I miss us at the pilgrim’s masses and the night skies after.  I miss you deeply, and I’ll see you again.

September 26th, Belorado to Burgos (39 kilometers):

When I get myself moving the next morning, I’ve already convinced myself to find a nice hotel and check in for the evening, enjoy a rest day and let my feet heal.  I’m not terribly excited about spending another day in Belorado as I’m wandering around – it’s very chilly and the town looks grey and cold compared to the path the Camino takes in the distance – all warm hues of grain fields and open blue skies.  Without really intending to, I keep following the Camino, all the while being drawn down the path by the yellow arrows.  Ultreiya, right?

Providence provides.  Just outside of town I’ve stopped to look at one of the maps (See?  Lesson learned!) and I see a person who can only be Susannah walking along the path.  I wolf-whistle.

It occurs to me that I may be mistaken, that I might have just whistled at some stranger.  But the howl of recognition and cheer that comes back at me proves the lie.  This, dear readers, is the real birth of the Three Musketeers.  

Susie and I walk for a bit to the next town, catching up on the last few days until we find a place to stop and get coffee, and there we find Linde, who Susannah knows already, and after the great coffee we head off together.  By the time we make it to the village at the crossroads, I believe we’ve decided to catch the bus from there to Burgos which, again, feels like a smart compromise for our feet and bodies.  And in retrospect this turns out to be a smart move indeed – the three of us in the back of the bus are quick to realize that the slog from the countryside into the city of Burgos is long and ugly.  I do feel a small sense of guilt that I’ve skipped it, but it’s strongly counterbalanced by a deep sense of rightness, so I’m not going to question that guilt too deeply.

Burgos is grey-clouded and seems to my countryside-adjusted eyes tall, large, and imposing.  The cathedral and the squares around it are gorgeous – we get there after a long walk from the bus station to the older part of the city (read: trading neon and concrete for stone and gargoyles), crossing over a bridge and under a tunneled archway where accordion-players are busking for change.  Nearly directly behind the cathedral lies the giant municipal hostel, afterwards referred to as Castle Peregrino.  

Castle Peregrino is a full 6 stories, can house 200-plus pilgrims, has massive windows overlooking the city and the cathedral, enormous walk-in showers, has elevators, a huge photo mural of the upcoming ‘meseta’ region we’ll be walking into in the next few days, a warmly painted and massive kitchen… and one washer and dryer.  There is danger ahead, mark my words.  But we get settled in amid a room full of friendly faces (the Canadian pensioners and the Friendly Eastern European Guy are here) and ostensibly lay down for a nap: Susannah falls asleep but Linde and I have a long and happy conversation instead.  

Soon we muster forward in search of pants (Susie abandoning hers at the beginning of the Camino and now found herself in need with the cold), tennis shoes, clips, and a grocery store; long story short we basically fail to find all of these things, but for the supermarket which is all the way back to the bus station.  I realize that I have a mistaken belief – that you can find all of these things within walking distance of the center of a major city, which on reflection of my experiences back home is in no way, shape, or form accurate.  It’s a good lesson on ‘walkability’ and how nice it was that I could walk to nearly everything I needed when I lived in Boone.  That’s a rare feat for most cities and towns, apparently even in Spain.  Oh, and silliness ensues:

On the way back to the hostel we decide to stop and eat at a place called ‘Mexican Restaurant’ that promises hamburgers and fries, and I attempt to order using my nascent Spanish, feeling confident. 

It takes me a minute to realize that the Mexican Restaurant is run by folks from either India or Pakistan, and their English is better than my Spanish, which they may or may not speak in the first place.  Horrible embarrassment aside, the burgers are excellent and we make our way back to Castle Peregrino in good spirits.  

In retrospect, it seemed like a good plan: go downstairs, do laundry, wait on laundry, eat flan.  As you can guess, the combination of limited laundry resources and hundreds of pilgrims caused things to go awry.  Linde, Susannah and I take turns manning the laundry and managing the line – after I get the first round rolling I head over to where they are sitting for dessert and find myself nearly immediately being yelled at by a woman in Spanish.  I think what she wants is to clear the table for a large dinner of some sort – what I understand of her rapid, loud Spanish is almost nothing.  So I take the easy way out, I pick up my stuff with the intention of heading to one of the other empty tables – but she continues to yell at me, in fact pursuing me halfway across the cafeteria to do so.  Who knows, I certainly don’t.

In any case we take our dessert party elsewhere and there I meet Jari – another friend of Susannah’s and the person soon to earn her place in the Musketeers as our unofficial D’Artagnan.  She’s high-output, high-energy, beautiful in her chaos, and I want to wrap her in a blanket and get her to calm down.  The entire time I’ll know her on the Camino, she’ll nearly always be at top volume, top speed, and although we have the opportunity to have some insightful, inspiring conversations later about faith and our places in the world, the night in question I was tired and she wasn’t so I mainly just sat back and enjoyed the show.  

As the night inches closer to official ‘lights-out’ time, the pilgrims having dinner become louder and louder – in fact the whole cafeteria scene is pretty hectic and joyful, people are laughing and telling jokes, running into old acquaintances, and the general din is at college party levels.  I was coming out of the bathroom when it happened, so I’m still not sure what prompted it, but I shit you not, the cafeteria erupts into a sing along of ‘Don’t Stop Believing’.  It’s a moment to remember…

Except the hospitalero comes dashing in from the office to shush all of us.  Way to rain on our parade, amigo – granted it was 9:30, but you’ve got to expect some chaos with this many people in one building.  Like chastised schoolkids, we settle down for a few minutes but the volume inevitably starts to rise once again, until we find ourselves being shushed over the intercom, like some stern, silly Big Brother.  

This isn’t the last time I’ll find myself being shushed with the other Musketeers, but it’s the most memorable.  Susannah latches onto the phrase “Don’t you shush me!”, which will become a rallying cry for our weary spirits in the week to come.  I miss it, and the freedom that was easy to rely on as a pilgrim, social conventions be damned.