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.
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