Some days on the Camino demand action. Others ask only that you sit still long enough to notice the shape of the day.

Today was a day of acclimation in Bilbao. A down day. Not down in spirit—just… still. A kind of gentle limbo between the blur of jet engines and the slow rhythm of pilgrimage. My body is somewhere over the Atlantic, my backpack is here, and my mind is floating in between, wrapped in the soft gray wool of Basque drizzle.

This was not a dramatic rain, not a noble storm. No, this was the kind of drizzle that sneaks into your collar and settles into your bones. The kind that requires an umbrella even though you are already armored in Gore-Tex and optimism. The kind of rain that does not fall… it rests on you, like a wet hand on your shoulder.

I stayed in today. Mostly. I sat near the hostel windows and watched the street life like a slow-motion ballet. Couples with umbrellas performing duets. A man pushing a stroller while smoking and holding a baguette under one arm. A woman in a red coat who paused at the corner and simply stood still for a moment, like she had nothing to prove.

Inside, the hostel was its own weather system. Warm, humid, and full of fellow pilgrims, each orbiting in their own little preparation rituals. Wet socks hung like prayer flags above radiators. Gear was splayed across bunks like battle plans. Someone from Germany was reorganizing their pack for the fourth time since he arrived.

At one point, I decided to retreat to my room for a nap. I padded up the stairs and confidently punched in the code on the door. Nothing. Tried again. Nothing. I stood there for a moment, pressing buttons like a man trying to defuse a bomb with no instructions. Back down to the lobby I went, where the young woman at the desk looked up from her phone and smiled patiently. “Is my code still good?” I asked, trying to sound like someone who hadn’t just been bested by a door. “Yes,” she said, “but you have to enter it quickly.” I nodded solemnly, as if I hadn’t thought of that. Back upstairs I marched—only to discover I had been trying to break into the same room number… on the wrong floor. Apparently, my feet had decided they’d climbed far enough and simply refused the last flight, taking a stand one story too soon.

The bathroom situation here is… tight. The stalls are designed with the assumption that your knees can fold into a 90-degree angle parallel to your ears. Turning around is not a given. It’s a calculated risk. And the sink faucets—well, let us just say they are a test of character. Too far left, and nothing. Too far right, and I’d be the one hanging my clothes in the room. But if you hold your hands just right, in the narrow band of possibility, you are rewarded with a gentle stream of lukewarm water. Sometimes, this feels like a metaphor.

I returned from an afternoon wander to find my roommate had turned the heater up to 24°C, in a hopeful attempt to dry his laundry. The result was a room that stifling hot, and smelled like damp wool and travel dreams. His socks were still soaked, but his spirit remained unbothered. That’s the thing about pilgrims—we are always slightly damp but always moving forward.

At 8:00 p.m., I realized I had not eaten dinner. Fortunately, this is the exact moment that restaurants in Spain begin to consider opening. I found a quiet place, sat down, and ordered zamburiñas, those little scallops that taste like the sea on its best behavior, and a glass of red wine that reminded me why I came back to this country. I sat there for a long while, watching the waiter joke with the cook, the couple at the next table tapping each other’s fingers, the old man at the bar quietly finishing his espresso.

There’s something sacred in days like this. Nothing to prove. Nowhere to go. Just the chance to slow down, let the dampness in your coat remind you that you’re alive, and be grateful.

Grateful for this time. Grateful for the chance to spend six weeks in Spain, walking and watching and waking up in new towns. Grateful for legs that still carry me and for the quiet courage it takes to pause before the walking begins.

Tomorrow the real steps begin. But tonight, the stillness is enough.