There's nothing more exhilarating than turning a corner after a seemingly endless stretch of trail and seeing a local watering hole full of fellow pilgrims, taking a break and kicking up their feet. Some are sipping cafecitos or orange juice, while others are soaking in the river or tending to tired feet and blisters. It's an opportunity to replenish the body and to reconnect with some of the friends you've made who either went ahead or fell behind. The intense solitude of the walk is broken up, and you're given an opportunity to assess your progress for the morning.
People on the trail, both trekkers and business owners alike, are by and large, a generous and welcoming lot. As I approached my first refueling point just outside of Ponferrada, I wandered through a crowd to reach the counter, and heard any number of offers and invitations being exchanged.
"Let's go inside and have some coffee."
"Are your feet ok? I have some moleskin you can use."
"Do you need some sunscreen?"
"I'll buy your breakfast; you invited me to dinner last night."
It's a break from our usual posture when we're in a crowd, which is often to walk head-down towards our destination and be civility inattentive towards others who might cross our path. We stand quietly in elevators. We queue silently in the supermarket checkout line. We wait indifferently at the post office. We stare straight ahead in traffic. We pretend we can't see the man on the road, asking for a stranger's kindness.
On the Camino, you're challenged to bring down your guard, and adopt and accept a spirit of continual generosity that feels a bit jarring and out of place at first, but then becomes more commonplace and natural the more you're willing to engage. Your first reaction is to think it's all a bit over the top, but it's genuine, and it's a fundamental part of why people from all over the world find themselves here.
I was alone in the Albergue Guiana in Ponferrada, setting up my bunk, when Xanti (Shan-tee) walked in and introduced himself. Slightly older (but not old) he was full of energy and looking for a bite to eat. He had ridden into Ponferrada on his bicycle with a group of five other Spaniards, and they had scattered during the daily rituals of washing, storing, etc. I said I was headed out for a beer and asked him if we wanted to join. He grabbed his change and ID and led the way to the lobby.
He was from the heart of Basque Country in San Sebastian, Spain, and we covered a wide range of topics over a couple of cañas (short beers), including normally taboo topics like Basque nationalism and US healthcare policy - a heavy start to the evening, but the conversation was great and enlightening. He inquired about my knee (I was wandering about with one of my hiking poles for added support) and I recounted my misadventures during the descent into Pamplona from Zubiri. He seemed genuinely concerned and asked me how much weight I was carrying. He pondered my response and my plans for forging ahead and sat back in his chair. "I think you should shed your pack for a couple of days; it might the difference between finishing the Camino, and not finishing, in your condition."
I knew I had the option to send my pack ahead a few towns if I knew where I was going to stay the following evening, but I hadn't bothered to research it. The purist in me didn't really think of walking around with a day bag as something you would do - you had to carry your pack on a pilgrimage. But Xanti was right, it might be the difference between finishing, or writing the end of the story where I stood.
"What do I need to do to set that up?" The same burst of energy he had when he burst into the room earlier in the day seemed to return, and he popped out of his chair. He dropped a couple of euros on the table for the beers, and said "Let's go, I'll set it up for you." 15 minutes later, I had a reservation in Villafranca del Bierzo, and my bag was tagged for pickup with a small envelope containing 3 euros. A taxi driver named Juan Manual came by at 8:30am every day to pick up any bags that needed to be sent ahead. I had the essentials, and I would walk 18 pounds lighter tomorrow. My knees would love me again.
Xanti then extended an invitation to dinner at a local restaurant known for its local cuisine. We talked sports (football and fútbol) and family, and we downed some excellent Spanish wine in the process. We exchanged contact information and agreed to stay in touch, and then wandered back to the bunkroom before lockout. I was grateful for the invitation to dinner, and for the good counsel regarding pack weight. I'd plan to send my bag ahead, at least for a few days to help things along.
Extending an invitation break down the walls we've built to protect ourselves from disappointment and rejection, and encourages dialog. Different people from different corners of the world find common interests and create friendships where there used to be a void. The spirit of the Camino, on the march.
My favorite invitation is the invitation to communion we hear every Sunday morning at St. Elizabeth's, with roots in the traditional Celtic service liturgy. It's the highlight of my Sunday morning, and it's a spirit I've challenged myself to embody in all things:
This is the table, not of the church, but of the Lord.
It is made ready for those who love him, and for those who want to love him more.
So, come, you who have much faith and you who have little,
you who have been here often and you who have not been here long,
you who have tried to follow and you who have failed.
Come, because it is the Lord that invites you.
It is His will that those who want him should meet him here.
Extend an invitation and live the spirit of the Camino. We need it more than we know.
Will