Ah, life in the albergue, where snoring is a symphony, morning alarms start at 5:12 AM sharp, and personal boundaries are a faint suggestion at best. But nothing quite prepared J for the man in the thong. To this day, no one really knows what the thong was. A loincloth? A minimalist Speedo? A pair of boxers that had lost the will to live? Whatever it was, it had surrendered the battlefield of modesty entirely, leaving his butt cheeks gleaming defiantly in the lamplight like twin moons rising over bunk bed ridge.

J was mesmerized. Not in a creepy way, more in a National Geographic, is-it-going-to-fall-off-completely? kind of way. Every so often she would sneak a peek on her way to the bathroom, water bottle in hand as a decoy. “Just hydrating!” she’d chirp while craning her neck like an owl. She became a low-key scientist, observing changes in its position throughout the night: had it crept farther up? Would it finally breach containment protocol and reveal more than anyone paid for?

Such are the mysteries of the albergue. Forget the Meseta or the Pyrenees, nothing tests a pilgrim’s spiritual growth quite like bunk-bed booty and textile surrender.

The shower stall was a marvel of modern engineering, if the goal of that engineering was to trap a full-grown adult inside a damp upright coffin. At approximately 2×2 feet, the space offered just enough room to stand still and contemplate your life choices, but not quite enough to turn around without unintentionally exfoliating yourself on the screws that once held the towel rods. There were no hooks, no shelves, no friendly ledges for soap. Your towel? Slung over the door, half-drenched before you even got your socks off. Your clothes? In a damp pile on the floor, possibly now part of a communal laundry ritual no one warned you about.

The shower head dangled from its cord like it too, had given up. There was no mount, you were the mount. Which meant the bathing process turned into a bizarre solo choreography of “get wet,” “put down the shower head,” “frantically scrub before drying like a raisin with a film of protective… soap?”, “pick up the shower head again,” “try to rinse,” and “accidentally blast yourself in the face or the crotch at high pressure.” Repeat until fully clean or emotionally broken. Nothing says pilgrimage like a fight for dignity with a piece of plumbing in a plastic closet.

L from Italy was not a pilgrim. She was a phenomenon. A meteor in motion. A caffeinated hummingbird in human form. And she did all this at warp speed, in flip-flops. Not high-tech, hiking-sandal hybrids. No. Dollar-store, toe-thong, slap-the-back-of-your-heel flip-flops. The kind of footwear most people reserve for beaches, showers, or brief jaunts to the mailbox. But L? She hiked mountain passes in them. She stormed ridge lines in them. She outran thunderstorms in them.

At one point, the toe piece of her flip-flop tore clean through the sole, and she just… slipped it back in and kept going. Like it was a minor inconvenience. Like it was a sneeze. Lesser mortals would have stopped to cry, patch, or at least swear dramatically. But L just laughed, adjusted her stride to accommodate the flapping footwear, and powered on. Her good mood never wavered. Her steps never slowed. She was a sandal-clad spirit of joy, blazing trails while the rest of us, in our overpriced boots and orthopedic inserts shuffled along in her muddy wake, secretly questioning our life choices.

We began the day with the naivety of lambs. Sure, the sky was grey. Sure, the ridge ahead was wrapped in cloud like some sort of divine warning sign wrapped in cotton. But we were pilgrims! Hardened souls! Trail-tested and foolishly optimistic.

The wind was the first to greet us. It did not shake our hands or whisper good morning. No, it slapped us square across the face and then changed directions just to make sure everyone got a turn. Jackets flapped like torn sails. Ponchos twisted themselves into sadistic knots. And then came the rain.

Oh, the rain.

Not the gentle mist that kisses your cheeks and makes you say silly things like, “It’s refreshing!” No. This was the kind of rain that seeks out the soft spots in your resolve and drills straight into them like waterboarding from Valhalla. It came at us sideways, upward, and then seemingly from within. Packs soaked. Socks soaked. Spirits dampened but not broken.

And then the lightning began.

At first it was distant, theatrical lighting for our dramatic ridge-top march. But our Norse friends, smiling and wide-eyed, made a casual mention of how Thor would be proud of our perseverance.

Wrong. Thing. To. Say.

With their blessing, the sky opened like a trapdoor in the heavens. Lightning exploded so close it carved our shadows into the fog. One bolt struck behind us, a deafening crack that sent us ducking for cover in every direction, like a band of soaked squirrels with trust issues. Thunder followed so quickly it was not heard so much as felt, a rib-rattling crack and roar that made even the bravest of us consider joining a monastery.

We trudged on, or rather, skidded, slid, and stumbled down the ridge as the trail became a rocky riverbed. Water poured in rivulets, then streams, then full-on cascades. Every step forward felt like a challenge issued by the mountain itself. One misplaced foot and you were bound for the reservoir 1000m below via express stream.

We descended into the canyon of the Embalse de Salime, soaked to the marrow, blistered, bruised, and bellied up with adrenaline. Ponchos clung to us like shrouds. Waterproof pack covers? Utter lies. They merely delayed the flood by five minutes. Maybe six, if you offered them a prayer and a bribe.

But then, as all great storms do, it passed.

The wind softened. The clouds parted. Somewhere, a bird chirped, an actual chirp, not just a cry for help. We emerged like shipwreck survivors, soaked, muddy, laughing like lunatics. There we stood, trail-worn and thunder-kissed, shaking our fists at the sky and thanking whatever gods had decided to spare us this time.

We were no longer individuals, we were bonded by bolts of sky-fire and rivers underfoot. And though the Norse may need to work on their divine intercessions, we will always remember that wild descent not just as a test, but as a triumph.

What is a Camino without a little weather trying to kill you?

Today, I was given the quiet honor of being entrusted with someone’s truth, not the version polished for the world, but the raw and tender story that lives beneath the surface. One of our group, with a courage that humbles me, chose to share the profound weight of what they have carried, and the long, winding path that has led them here. Life, or perhaps something deeper, grace, chance, faith has offered them a second chance. And somehow, in the strange alchemy of the Camino, I was invited into that sacred space of their unfolding.

There are moments on this path when time seems to stretch and contract, when the usual defenses fall away and what is real rises to the surface. I have had the privilege of listening, not just with my ears, but with my whole heart. The kind of conversation that changes you in ways you will not realize until years later. To be seen as a brother, to be invited into the heart of someone else’s reckoning, is something beyond words. It is a gift I do not take lightly.

The Camino has many teachings, but perhaps none more powerful than this: when we walk with openness, we meet each other at our most human. What has formed here is not a fleeting acquaintance, but something enduring, a friendship etched deep by the steps we have taken, the tears we have shared, and the silence we have honored. This, I will carry with me always.