October 12th: Ponferrada to Villafranca del Bierzo (23 kilometers):

Morning at the municipal hostel in Ponferrada was busy and crowded; I came disheveled into the kitchen to find nearly every seat at the table full.  I looked around for a place to sit only to see Danielle and Jean-Louis, the friendly Quebecois from the meseta, motion me over and offer some spare yogurt and grapefruit, and we made small talk about the day.  I didn’t know then how much time we’d spend together in the last stretch of our pilgrimage, and I ventured outside to find a proper bar with breakfast food.

Across the empty parking lot and the main road was the only open café I could see, a place full of cigarette smoke and hastily commanded by a thick-chested bear of a man who took my order ‘My Cousin Vinny’-style (one breakfast, coffee or tea).  There were some familiar faces – mostly on the ‘familiar’ rather than ‘friendly’ side, and I ended up sharing a table with a Cuban expat couple in their 60s who were on their fourth Camino.  The man spoke at top volume from underneath a curled cowboy hat, talked about how much he loved living in Atlanta, and joked about how every time they’d finished the Camino ‘it was the last time’, but after a few years his soft-spoken, demure wife would begin to talk him up for another 500 miles through Spain.  They finished and paid before me, and I soon followed them into the early morning.

Ponferrada in the early, early hours of the morning was the only place on the Camino I felt persistently nervous: the Way was poorly signed, the streets twisting and winding their way through increasingly dodgy, poorly lit areas, and there were still crowds of young men lingering around the bars under smoke and neon lights.  I wandered around for quite some time, checking the guidebook to little avail, and eventually fell in with several other pilgrims who showed similar signs of concern.  Through a series of hand gestures and one-word sentences, we followed what appeared to be a natural course through a school campus and out of the city via the bridge, our course taking us into an outlying community with a beautiful, quiet stone church.  As the sun began to come up, it granted a beautiful light to the statue of Mary out front, and I was glad the Camino had taken me past this point.

Most of the rest of the morning was the same – wandering through several suburbs of Ponferrada, stopping at a roadside bar for a late brunch where I drank coffee at the table outside and watched the pilgrims shuffle past, and eventually finding my way into more wine vineyards.  I had planned to cover a lot of ground, and even though I stopped at nearly every opportunity to explore the chapels and villages (always, always in search of coffee), I made very good time.  Nearly two-thirds of the way to Villafranca, I stopped at an upscale café adjacent to the village church to have a late lunch.  There was a wedding wrapping up at the church, and its’ revelry and volume spilled out into the street, children and old people laughing, and I was struck by how much I wanted a friend alongside me.  In that moment, on a bright sunny day with coffee in front of me, I wanted either Vittoria or Jeppe there to laugh and be silly, to revel in our sweat and toil together. 

The stretch from lunch to Villafranca became quickly tedious, following the road for the afternoon as temperatures rose and I shed my layers in a vain attempt to keep from sweating.  By the time I began the long climb uphill, I looked as if I were back in Georgia in the summer: rings of sweat around my neck and down my back, empty water bottles clanking against my pack.  Oh, and some of the signs were… mildly confusing:

When I crested the ridge to my first view of Villafranca del Bierzo, however, the effort paid off: Villafranca rests carefully between hills like a picture of medieval Europe, and my imagination was active as I walked into the city.  The first few hostels on the outskirts of town looked unappealing, and I needed to find an ATM, so I headed toward the parque central. 

Cobblestones.  Steep cobblestones.  After a full day’s walk on dirt, gravel, and pavement, with bruised feet and an aching back, cobblestones are close to torture.  Those damned cobblestones wound their way to the city center, bringing me, cursing under my breath with each step, to an open square full of tables, restaurants, and (thankfully) banks where I got my cash and plopped down on the sidewalk to catch my breath.  I’d forgotten that it was a national holiday as well, and the town was feeling festive.  Mindful of the hour, I got up and pushed on to the hostel across the river, a place called Albergue de la Piedra I’d heard recommended. 

I walked in the door to a tiny kitchen/reception area immediately ahead of two other pilgrims, a blonde woman and a man who looked exactly like a young, grizzled Charlton Heston.  Before we could ask the price or pull out our credencials, the couple running the hostel had us sit down, take off our boots, and brought us coffee.  A golden retriever wandered up and sat on my feet; the hospitalera told me his name was Conan because “He is muy fuerte”.  The pup wagged his tail and licked my hand.  De la Piedra welcomed me in like a second home, and before I knew it I’d been shown around, offered use of the laundry, chosen my bed in a gorgeous fourth story room open to the air and boasting heavy, comfortable beds, and been given a brief history of the building.  It seems the couple had built the hostel themselves, making use of the native rock as a fourth wall that ran from the ground floor to the ceiling… I was jealous of their commitment and lifestyle. 

The two pilgrims from earlier and I were the first ones in, and so we made introductions (Esther from Copenhagen and Rob from Charleston) and threw our laundry in together.  Esther lay down for a nap; Rob and I went in search of drinks and conversation.  Right around the corner from us was a café overlooking the bridge, and after he bought himself wine and me coffee, we sat on the balcony and told our stories.  Rob was a merchant marine in his twenties who had come on pilgrimage at the last minute (beginning in Leon), brutally damaged his feet in the process, and decided to become a priest.  A Jesuit, no less.  This he told me in such a direct, earnest manner that it was a while before I realized his manner was the result of his constant intoxication. 

I struggled with Rob, to be honest.  My gut reaction was to be judgmental and pull away from his drunkenness, his want to ‘instruct’ me on matters of faith, and his poor social timing.  I’d come on pilgrimage to be still of heart and mind, to focus and accept, and this guy was going out in all directions and quickly attaching himself to me in the short time we talked.  But as I sat there, listening, I recognized that judgment and worked to let it go, to practice just being with another person and grateful for their company. 

After our drinks were finished, Rob went out to explore and I went back to the hostel, finding Esther reading on a couch upstairs.  I sat down on a couch across from her and we started talking.  Her English was good enough to communicate facts but slow to recognize sarcasm, but we did well enough.  We shared our stories and talked about our respective professions – she worked in social services with teenagers as well. 

Esther told me the saddest reason for going on pilgrimage I heard the entire time I was in Spain, but I won’t repeat it here. 

A strange thing happened as we talked – I found myself rapidly, powerfully attracted to her.  Despite her immediate sadness and sorrow, she exuded a vibrant sense of life and fullness coupled with a feminine goofiness that somehow worked.  It was something of the sense that she was a person who had always, and would always, be fully genuine in any situation.  Maybe I can’t adequately describe it, but it was there.  For what it’s worth, in that conversation I loved her goofball laugh and her clever expressions, her calm assuredness and how she sat like a cowboy, legs splayed and boots propped up on a chair.  It was one of those moments where I wish sincerely there were a way to say "You are beautiful, and special, and recognized" without sounding like a creeper, without expressing intent. 

Soon, Rob returned from his wanderings, irritated that no grocery stores were open on the holiday, and we decided to go to the restaurant across the street for their pilgrim’s menu.  Walking into the restaurant, Casa Mendez, we ran into Fanny and Marc – the French couple I’d met on my birthday so long ago – and we all found a table together.

Casa Mendez was more upscale than I was accustomed to in small towns, with a wide round table and proper silverware laid out.  I had to ask the French which fork was for which dish, and for most of the meal I was happy to be quiet and bask in their delighted banter.  They were both quick to insist I return to do the Camino from Arles, their hometown, and quick to insist that the ‘rude France’ stereotypes are untrue outside of Paris.  If France is anything like those two, I will be happy to go one day.  I laughed at the banter until my sides hurt and watched Rob down glass after glass of wine, topped off with some strange green dessert liquor.  By the time the check came he was, in a word, drunk. 

We finished the night around our table with a discussion of which of the three paths to take in the morning – the standard route along the roadway, a more scenic route over the mountains for most of the way to the west promising rugged terrain but little civilization and few waymarks, or the eastern path over Mount Pradela which would merge with the Way a little over halfway to O’Cebreiro – the town marking our entrance into Galicia province and the official final stretch of the Camino de Santiago.  Still undecided, I followed my companions back to the hostel and went to bed excited, thrilled, and more than a little sad to move toward the end of my pilgrimage.  Little did I know what was to come.  

October 11th, Molinaseca to Ponferrada (7 kilometers):

Breakfasted at the hostel with Sam and the same crowd from the night before; it took me a bit to screw up my courage and ask someone to take a picture of he and I before I ventured out onto the Camino, intent on making my way just a few short miles up the way to Ponferrada… and promptly walked back inside for another cup of coffee.  Rain was happening, and since I wasn’t going far for the day, there wasn’t any reason to hurry on. 

I was sad, however, to watch the pilgrims throw on their ponchos and head out into the early morning rain – I was acutely aware that my choice to linger in Ponferrada and visit the Templar Castle there meant I’d probably not see these folks again.  I’m terrible at goodbyes, as I’ve said before. 

Once it became light and the rain lessened, I made my way down the road and wound all through several suburbs on the way into Ponferrada – the Camino at this point wasn’t particularly interesting but for the fact that there was no place out of sight to go to the bathroom.  For a while I played leap frog with the same older couple as the day before, and by the time I made sense of the confusing way points on the grey streets of lower Ponferrada, I was desperate for a restroom. 

Literally across the street from the castle’s edifice is a Godiva café, where I could already see pilgrims crowded around tables under the brightly lit neon displays; it was an obvious choice.  When I walked in and dropped my stuff in a corner, beelining for the facilities, an older French guy I’d talked to at dinner intercepted me to grab me by the shoulders and insist I buy an apple cupcake.  Hijinks ensued as I tried to both ensure him I would in the future while extracting myself en route to relief.  When I came back from the restroom, he was gone, but I got the cupcake.  It was delicious. 

Since the castle wasn’t to open for an hour or so, I made my way through Ponferrada, to the wide flat square past the clock tower and in front of the Ayunamiento, explored gift shops with a variety of Templar-oriented trinkets, a Spanish-language comic book shop that was exactly like every comic shop I’ve been in across the U.S., and had lunch. 

On the way back into the castle I stopped by the church, the site of a Marian vision, and ducked through the heavy wooden doors into the dark, silent, incense-full church. The only thing well lit was the altar piece showing Mary in splendor, and for a moment I stood there, imagining what it must be like to have visions of the Virgin.  I thought about blessings and joy. 

When another visitor came in, cracking the doors to let a shaft of light into the church, I realized there was another person sitting, head bowed, on the next to last row.  I recognized Brother Sam, and after he was finished praying I sat down beside him, whispering my gratitude at running into him again.  We walked outside and talked about our plans for the day, and this ‘second goodbye’ felt like a blessing, felt easy, felt natural.  I did, as usual, completely forget to get his contact information, which I realized later.

The Templar Castle was empty in the first few minutes of its’ visitor’s hours, and I had my time and leisure to explore the ruins, imagining knights along the walls looking out over the various sections of Ponferrada.  High on the defensive positions, peeking through arrow slots, it struck me how much the position of the castle must have been its’ advantage.  Although the guidebook had made snarky comments about the touristy aspect of the castle, I found it easy to appreciate the site and let my mind wander, imagining how much time and effort it must have taken to build it, how cold and strong it must have seemed to live there, battles. 

Then the apple cupcake came back to haunt me, and in the very, very nice bathroom in the Castillo de Templarios, I broke a toilet.  I made my escape quickly. 

In Ponferrada, the municipal hostel is on the far outskirts of downtown, across a busy street and parking lot, down the Calle de Peregrinos and behind a gate.  Ominous as it seemed, it immediately struck me as welcoming – there were many pilgrims waiting in the courtyard outside for the building to open at 2, and there was a sign encouraging us to make ourselves welcome, to shower in the garden bathrooms, to hang out laundry, etc.  When the doors opened, I checked in between a Californian guy I vaguely knew via Barry and a gorgeous young French woman who I thought I knew, but upon asking her name, didn’t.  Her girlfriend was also gorgeous, in that Tegan and Sara kind of way.  Asymmetrical haircuts, oddly fashionable.  Unfair.

After the typical shower and shave, I spent a few hours waiting on a good time to go out for dinner and the mass.  The Asian couple and several of their friends literally took over the kitchen area, and this time around I made confusing introductions across the language barrier.  The Japanese guy referred to himself as ‘Jim’; he and his girlfriend were the only of their crowd that spoke any English but we made do.  Their food, stir fry and some potato dish, smelled amazing and made me jealous.  I couldn’t think of a proper way to invite myself in, so I went out into the twilight in search of food and mass.

Walking up the Calle de Peregrinos yet again, I passed proper bars with leather-jacketed men smoking cigarettes outside, the first time I’d seen the like in Spain.  I spent a good 45 minutes walking from restaurant to restaurant in the old city looking for one that was open, to no avail.  Hungry and anxious not to miss the mass at 7, I got angrier and angrier, until I rounded the corner into the square facing the church and saw a placard being placed outside a warmly lit café and open tables underneath the stone awning. 

It was a perfect meal – personal sized stone fired pizzas and a pint of thick, dark beer suggested by the waiter.  He’d studied in the U.S. and spoke great English, and I was grateful to have an easy conversation with a friendly face.  For the first half of my meal, I was the only person there, until Mary and Joseph came wandering by and took my suggestion to try out the pizza.  We made small talk after they made their orders, and I paid and walked over to the mass nearby. 

When I came in, I didn’t see any other recognizable pilgrims, but the church was full of older women chanting some Marian responsorial I didn’t recognize.  It may have been ‘Queen of Heaven’, but in my post-pizza-beer easiness, I enjoyed listening to the repetition and ritual, allowing my mind to wander and think more about those Marian visions from earlier. 

The mass itself was slow and beautiful, the priest had a deep compelling voice he used to great effect, and as the church filled up I found myself sandwiched between a family and two wrinkled old women – who didn’t shy away from holding hands during the Our Father and patted me, grinning, on the shoulder when the priest called the pilgrims forward after the mass was finished.  Looking out over the assembled crowd while the priest read his blessing in English, Spanish, German, and French, everyone looked happy and joyful, and so was I, feeling blessed and rested after an easy day exploring. 

And just to add one more fine thing to the day – when I went back to the hostel, I ran into Joseph Maria in the parking lot… so just as I had said goodbye to Sam in the morning, I found myself blessed with another friend I thought lost on the Camino.  

October 10th, Rabanal to Molinaseca (27 kilometers):

One of the best days on the Camino began, for me, with a scramble to eat breakfast amid the mess of pilgrims crowded into the Albergue’s tiny kitchen. I came downstairs to find pure chaos as the hospitaleros attempted to keep the toast, coffee, jam, and sundries stocked and the pilgrims crowded around two tables for breakfast while also attempting to not be in the way.  I saw Brother Sam and Ewan the Irish guy but couldn’t find a seat near them, instead I slipped some toast and butter into a napkin and went outside to the benches to eat. 

Today I’d walk up to the Iron Cross, and wasn’t sure exactly for what I was seeking forgiveness.  2012 had brought so much: the totally unexpected end of my relationship with Anne and my exit from Boone – in effect, saying goodbye to the first and strongest place I’d felt like I had a home and an adult life oriented toward a future of happy aging, community, and place; working as the Clinical Assistant at Second Nature and learning more and working harder than I’d done in years; living extremely simply with a determined focus on people, health, joy, and faith for most of the year; embracing change rather than falling into self-pity and grief.  I knew that I had much to atone for, but my early morning reflections brought only gratitude, as cheesy as that sounds. 

David the Hospitalero and Sam came outside into the courtyard, bracing themselves against the early morning chill, and I also got up to say my goodbye to Rabanal.  David chose to walk us to the edge of town (really only a few hundred yards away) before bidding us farewell, and Sam and I walked on.  He invited me to walk with him since we’d missed out on our conversation the night before, and I happily agreed.  We climbed from the outskirts of town up into grey clouds and very North Carolina-like mountains, quickly rising above the early morning fog and finding ourselves embraced by mists and light rain alternating with brief bursts of sunlight through the clouds.  Pastures, hardwood fences, and broken-down rubble houses were strung along the Way, and the morning was both quiet and full of promise. 

We stopped in the first village for coffee, finding Ewan inside, and as Sam ducked into the bathroom I paid for the coffees and sat down, happy and grateful to offer him something for his companionship.  Pilgrims came in and out, and we moved on quickly, eager to both reach the summit and the Cross, and make our way to points further. 

I don’t think I’ll talk about our conversations in detail.  Even now, it feels private and intimate, and I don’t want to reduce Sam’s mentorship with particulars.  What I will say is that I took away a deep sense of joy as a response to the gospels, both in his happy fervor and my own intuitions; a joyful and new understanding of Confession/Reconciliation; and a sense of ‘rightness’ in my question of religious discernment.  God’s presence in that conversation, more than anything, convinced me that even if seminary isn’t in my future, I feel most right, most fulfilled, most joyful, and most alive, when immersed in a life of faith – whether that be in conversation, action, contemplation, or gratitude at the mundane.  I think that’s a powerful sign; I want to trust the message.

As the Camino crested the mountain ridge and began to slope downward, to villages half-seen in the clouds and wet with mist, I said goodbye to Sam in a town halfway between Rabanal and Molinaseca  where I anticipated staying for the night.  After lunch and watching many pilgrims come through and move on, and after talking to a beautiful Czech woman over coffee who committed to pressing on despite her obvious respiratory infection, I slung my pack back on and hit the trail.

The Camino drifted in and out of small, Irish-style villages mostly empty of people, the only indications I wasn’t lost being the yellow arrows pointing me toward creekbeds, alleys, horse paths, and confusing twists and turns through small coves and untilled farmland.  For a while I  walked behind an elderly French couple with whom I shared no common language, but we smiled at each other as we passed each other back and forth, and they took half my roll of cookies when we stopped in the same field for lunch.

By the time I got within viewing distance of Molinaseca, visible below the steeply dropping trail and over a river, I was exhausted.  I’d burned through the last 10 kilometers in less than 2 hours, but as I got closer I saw a familiar balding figure in front of me, shuffling along.  I caught up to Brother Sam and we finished the walk into town together, choosing to stay at a private Albergue on the far end of town as it promised no bunk beds and a common meal downstairs. 

As we were checking in, familiar face after familiar face shuffled in – the Asian couple, Ewan, the Canadians, a middle-aged pair of Coloradans who had begun the Camino in Astorga, and a bubbly-faced Chinese student I recognized from his frequent cigarette breaks along the way.  I spent the afternoon exploring Molinaseca (a beautiful town crouched above the river like something out of a Disney fairy tale, but EMPTY, lonely, and strange), sharing the laundry with an awkward, fussy  man from California, and taking advantage of the patio to read and drink coffee (of course). 

Dinner downstairs was sneakily impressive – one of those meals you don’t expect much from, but turns into a massive feast of both epic proportion and amazing quality, served family style like some soul food restaurant in the South.  I drank entirely too much red wine while talking politics with the Coloradans and stuffed myself full of bread, soup, and flan, but when I went upstairs to my bed I couldn’t sleep.  I felt excited by the day, by the feeling of ‘crossing over’ into some new state of being as we’d crested the mountain range at the Iron Cross earlier, and I didn’t want to let it go to the forgetfulness of sleep.

I haven’t said anything about the Cross itself.  I’m reluctant to, because it’s one thing to know that a cross exists, in largely the same place, where it has for 800 years, where pilgrims have piled rock after rock after rock until the mound reaches high above your head, where like those thousands of pilgrims you climb the mound, put your hand on the Cross and think about the events that have led you there, where you find a place to leave your own rock, knowing you will never forget the experience even as you move on and immediately fall into the past, making way for the next penitent right behind you, smiling as you say goodbye, carrying it with you gratefully rather than mournfully, a cross to bear in your heart eternally… and it’s something else entirely to do this thing, to live it.  

October 9th, Astorga to Rabanal de Camino (22 kilometers):

The Camino took me out of Astorga quicker than I expected, into a long stretch of path alongside the highway that would have been boring and dull, but for the amazing dawn skies.  Muddled clouds backlit with the pink sunlight and low-slung rain clouds trapped the noise of the morning, giving my walk an otherworldly quality punctuated by the double rainbow just over the hills from the Camino.  The other pilgrims around me seemed to mirror the morning’s quietude, their conversations low and in languages I didn’t know, the strongest sound being the shuffle of our boots along the gravel. 

I was happy to walk mostly alone, prompted by the terrain to imagine that the countryside surrounding me was the African savannah – short grasses, small curled trees, and bushes that seemed to hide the promise of wildlife – and wary of rain.  The clouds seemed to have trouble making their minds up, opening with a small sprinkle once or twice but never quite committing to a real shower, and I had many miles and a mountain to climb before stopping for the night.  I wasn’t looking forward to getting drenched, but would deal with it if it happened. 

In Santa Catalina de Somoza, I trailed two brightly outfitted Asian pilgrims to the Hospederia San Blas; I’d been seeing them off and on for a few days but hadn’t yet been introduced, and we took up tables opposite one another on the street – a tight but brightly lit corridor of stones and houses that immediately felt comfortable.  I ordered my coffee and kicked myself for staying in Astorga rather than coming a little further to stay in this peaceful little village.  The teenage girl managing the hostel worked quickly with a charming smile and I could only imagine that it would have been a great place to stop and rest outside the big city. 

After passing through more countryside, I stopped for lunch at a wide spot in the road boasting two different bar/cafes flush against one another – the one on the right called itself the Meson Cowboy and was run by a middle aged Spanish man who looked as if he’d stepped out of a Clint Eastwood movie.  All that was missing was a ten-gallon hat: the bar was overlooked by several longhorn racks, and its’ interior looked like a saloon from a spaghetti western.  He offered me a stamp and a beer, but I passed the booze to go for more coffee and a tuna empanada. 

As soon as I sat down outside in the patio with a Canadian woman named Diane to chat about the morning, it began to pour rain, and we fretted about how far there was left to go before getting to Rabanal.  Pilgrims came off the trail quickly, ducking under the roof and dropping their poles and soaked ponchos in corners and looking for open chairs.  I acted cool but secretly dreaded a walk in the rain – so far I knew how lucky I’d been that I hadn’t seen very rough weather but didn’t want that streak to end.  I ate and sipped my coffee slowly.

And, almost as soon as I finished the sandwich, the rain stopped. 

Memory tells me, accurately or not, that the last part of the walk into Rabanal de Camino was all uphill, through a tightly winding trail of scree and loose rocks hidden from the road by mountain-laurel-like trees to the left and followed by a fence on the right.  The fence itself was covered in thousands upon thousands of small monuments left by former pilgrims – wooden crosses wedged into the wire made from sticks, random pictures and trinkets done up in a personal altar, all manner of stone cairns along the ground.  For the first kilometer, I was surprised… and then I realized how far the crosses stretched and how many people must have stopped and left their mark, whether it be a photo or two twigs forming a makeshift crucifix, and I spent the rest of the walk praying and feeling so grateful that I’d become one of those pilgrims, that in that moment I was following millions of others in the pilgrim church, up the mountain. 

On the outskirts of Rabanal, I stopped at a café for lunch and made small talk with the waitress and a pair I’d been seeing off and on for a few days – a German grandmother and her granddaughter who were hiking the Camino together.  They were bubbly and kind and chided me for having yet another cup of coffee; when it was finished and the afternoon chill began to creep in, I made my way up the hill toward the Confraternity adjacent to the Benedictine chapel.  ‘Rubia’, my wayward companion, had emailed me insisting I stay there, as she had, two nights prior.  I felt much like I was walking in her  footsteps, getting secret information from an advance scout.  I felt cared for. 

A simple lean-to on the side of the street sheltered a table on which were dozens of brightly painted rocks, each with a name.  The next day’s walk from Rabanal would take me to the Cruz de Ferro, a high point along the Camino where pilgrims traditionally carry stones that represent their sins, where they leave those stones as a sign of penance.  I already had several stones I’d picked up along the way, but I found my name painted blue on a yellow background and slipped the rock in my pocket. 

The Confraternity in Rabanal, run by a British group, was a beautiful, quiet place, administered by a kindly English man who welcomed us all in at the opening hour through an arch and a wooden gate, gave us a tour of the substantial gardens, placed hands on our shoulders, and invited us to a proper afternoon tea later.  The lovingly restored building, the happiness of the other pilgrims as we made our way to the communal showers, hung laundry out on the lines above the courtyard, asked after maps and places to supper, and the ease in which people sat down and began quiet conversations is almost too gentle a thing to describe well.  Suffice it to say, it immediately felt like a sanctuary. 

After I’d showered and made plans with the Canadians and South African Barry for dinner (they were staying at the town’s hotel a block away), I overheard a shorter, smiling man talking to the Hospitalero and realized he was a Franciscan priest.  I immediately felt nervous and scared – here was an opportunity to talk seriously about religious vocation with a fellow pilgrim who would have real, direct insight to discernment.  But at this point on the Camino, if I’d learned nothing else it was to just talk to people and trust in their openness.  After tea in the garden (which I spent mostly chowing down on cookies with the German granddaughter and talking politics with a middle-aged American couple named, no joke, Mary and Joseph.  They were decked out in Patagonia from bow to stern, by the way.), I caught Brother Sam sitting outside the gate and approached him. 

After a brief introduction, I told him where I was planning to have dinner after the evening mass, and he said he’d catch me for a nightcap at the restaurant where we could talk at length about discernment.  It almost felt like making time for an interview – and, truth be told, when it comes to talking about matters of faith I’m wordy to the point of annoyance with my friends and family, but the idea of saying something stupid or simple to someone with legitimate spiritual authority scares the pants off me.  I remain deeply embarrassed that, being an adult convert to Catholicism and the greater church, I have massive gaping holes in my formal religious education… and I am often afraid those holes will outweigh whatever insight or passion I do have for my faith and spirituality. 

The chapel in Rabanal is small, stony, cool in temperature, and a wonderful place to celebrate the mass.  We pilgrims crowded in and were treated to an old, wild-haired German Benedictine speaking in English, Spanish, and French – he looked somewhat like Gandalf and bore something of a wizard’s delivery in his homily, impelling us with hushed punctuations and dramatically raised asides to embrace compassion and love in all things.  After, the congregants drifted out into the starry evening in search of dinner, and I hurried into La Posada Gaspar to find a table of laughing friends with a seat saved for me.  I was introduced to a man my age from Californa named Ramon who was the first male pilgrim I’d met also specifically interested in religious vocation, and although the table conversation veered more toward laughter and jokes, the side talk we managed to sneak in felt powerful and exciting. 

This is a fact – I don’t often, or quickly, feel connected to other men my age, but sharing my reasons for going on pilgrimage and hearing Ramon’s in turn, I immediately felt something of fraternity with him.  It was easy to imagine in that moment what it might be like to live in community with or be learning from a group of men who are committed to a spiritual life.  What’s more is that I remember feeling grateful in the moment, as it was happening.  Presence is something I’ve never been great at; I’m typically better at reflection. 

After the dinner was over, I realized Brother Sam had never shown up for that drink, and as I walked down to the Albergue in the darkness I was afraid I’d said or done something to put him off.  When I came into the building, I heard guitar music and chatter coming from the den downstairs, and I could smell the woodsmoke of the fire, so I poked my head in the room and saw Sam talking to David, the Hospitalero.  Sam immediately called me over to apologize, explaining that he’d gotten stuck by the fire and drawn into conversation, and though I was disappointed I reminded myself that even though this man was a priest, his pilgrimage was his own and I didn’t have a right to feel entitled to his time.  We shook hands, and I went upstairs to bed.