The Pilgrim (God Moments)

One of the perks of the Camino De Santiago journey was that the food was really good the whole way.  Although what we thought we ordered and what we actually ate were often two very different things.  Minor problem.  A bigger problem was that we were burning a lot more calories than we were accustomed so we were constantly hungry.  For the first two or three weeks, it seemed like every town of any consequence that we walked through, had a municipal park.  And if there was a park, there was inevitably a family group convened for a barbecue.  Now, what they use for briquettes there in Spain is anyone’s guess, but the volume of smoke was at least ten times anything you’d see in the States and the aroma that wafted over the landscape was overwhelmingly good.  The glory was simply indescribable.  And I’d look at Jamie and say, ”Ya know, if we wandered over there, introduced ourselves, and showed some interest in their event, I bet they’d offer us some of that barbecue.  That’s authentic stuff there.  Boy, I bet that’s good”.  The first few times I said that, Jamie would reply something to the effect “You’re not going over there.  Don't even think about it.”  And of course, she was right.  And on we went.  Well, in the days that followed, my dialogue stayed pretty much the same.  But it got to where Jamie would just give me one of those wifely, non-verbal looks that convey so much more than words ever do.  And on we went.

One day we arrived at a village about 4:00 PM.  It was really, really hot by that time of the day.  And the wind was howling up some sort of silica sand which made the cloudless sky look white instead of blue.  There was no one on the street save two very tired, very hungry pilgrims with hurting feet.  The locals were wisely taking siestas.  But there were dogs.  Lots of dogs.  The numbers were a bit alarming although they showed no interest in us as they too probably just wanted a quiet spot out of the wind.  Where we hoped to stay the night was at the far end of town – just a couple of blocks.  And as fate would have it, the little albergue (pilgrim’s hostel) was full.  Turning away from the door, a dual rutted path led out of town, arrow straight, through prickly scrub, and on to the next village, somewhere far distant concealed in the dusty haze.

Well, common sense would have dictated that we call a taxi and call it quits right then-and-there, but ours minds would not allow for logic, so we decided to break rule #1 (always move forward) and we backtracked a block  to a government run albergue in the center of town.  Those 200 yards or so seemed like miles.  And the finish line was anything but clean.  And nothing  suggested comfort.  But it did claim a superintendent who quickly slid a bottle of Scotch(?) under the desk as we approached.  His accent identified him as German but I’ll swear he came straight from the Bates Motel.

So, let me tell ya.  That was a low-point.  Right then.  Right there.  Physically hurting.  Emotionally drained.  And everything around me (save Jamie) is screaming “You are going to die!”  Sounds silly as I write it, but that is what I felt.

Anyway, by 6:00 PM, we had cleaned up and headed out to find some food.  It wasn’t hard to find as there was only one place in town.  There were a few other “pilgrim’s” already being served on the sidewalk cafe and there were a few locals stirring.  But the wind hadn’t let up.  One of the table umbrellas went flying as we sat down.

And then an hour, maybe two hours of events begin to unfold.  And I will never forget.

The owner of the cafe comes over to our table with two glasses of ice-water and asks if we could wait for a little while to be served.  She is waiting for her sister.

“Fine, no problem” we say in unison.

I am struck by her kindness, just the way she talks with us and serves the drinks, but I’m also bemused by her question.  What else could we say?  It’s not like we’re going to get up and go to the McDonald's next door.

Her sister arrives within a few minutes and the owner comes back over.

“It’s noisy out here on the street.  And windy.  Please, come back to the garden patio.” as she eases Jamie’s chair away from the table.  A twinge of guilt pricks at me somewhere down deep as she leads us past the other pilgrim’s but protest seems useless.  She proceeds to lead us through a side gate and suddenly it is quiet.  No wind.  There is a huge tree in the center of the courtyard - it’s canopy shades the whole garden area.  Flowers of every color are a stark contrast to the browns and grays just removed.  And grapes hang from any number of arbors.  There is one table, two chairs and she asks us to be seated.  Her sister brings us a bottle of wine and loaf of bread.  The owner returns.  “It is too hot in the kitchen.  Would you mind if my sister and I cook barbecue for you tonight?”  My words stick as the tears well.  Thankfully, my help-mate speaks for me.  The barbecue begins.  And that amazing aroma begins to permeate the garden.  First lamb.  Then blood-sausage.  Then small ribs.  Then chorizo.  The traditional french fries.  Soft grilled peppers and tomatoes in olive oil.  A dipping jelly, for lack of a better term, that kicks all the meats into an unreal gear.  All served with a simple elegance that I’ve never known before or since.

Needless to say, we ate way too much.  We cried and we hugged.

Well, I’ll let you come to your own conclusions about what happened during those few, brief hours in that tiny, small Spanish village.  A village that I don’t even know the name of.

But as Jamie and I headed out the next morning over that same rutted path that had looked so completely insurmountable and foreboding the afternoon before, a prayer began forming in my mind that pretty much sums up my thoughts. 

Link to: A Glimpse (Psalms and Prayers)