(And, no, I have no idea whether she's a big Green Day fan or not.)
Her post is about her encounter with an 'ugly American'. Don't know what that means?
I met a particularly nasty character today in Sahagún, holding forth at the Bar Deportivo before an audience of four or five other pilgrims, apparently English-speakers. This guy speaks no other language, he said: "and why should I have to?" He griped about the French, Germans, Spaniards, and other "foreigners" he´s encountering on his hike, and wondered why they don´t just pave the entire camino trail. And then he started into politics...
Now, Rebekah goes on to describe more boorish behavior, mainly of a political bent, but that's not what I want to talk about here, so if you're interested, read her post. I'll wait.
What her post did for me is to remind me of two events that occurred when my wife and I walked our little bit of the Camino Frances in 2004, and our own encounters with 'ugly pilgrims'. As I mentioned in my comment on her site, my wife and I encountered only one other American (Jim, who worked for the CDC in Atlanta) our entire trip. Maybe that's a blessing - at the time I was all for some experience that would push my wife and I into alien, uncomfortable territory. [ Careful what you wish for. ]
The first encounter was this: we had stopped for the day in Ventas de Naron,
where we met Manuel and Reme, good friends we would walk with for the rest of our journey. When the albergue opened, we climbed up the stairs and claimed a couple of the 22 beds and walked next door for a meal. Upon our returned we noticed that most if not all of the beds appeared taken.
So there we were, sitting on our beds, unpacking, chatting, and tending to the wounds of the day when we heard a tremendous commotion downstairs, so much so that Manuel and I decided it was worth checking the situation out. [ I suppose guys are guys anywhere and anytime. ] That was when first saw the pilgrim who became known to all of us as 'the angry German woman.'
Why was she angry? Well, she wanted a bed. Actually, she wanted two beds, one for herself and one for her husband. Her husband who was sick. Her husband, who would soon be arriving in a taxi.
Now, I can only tell you my opinion on these matters, so I'll tell you this: the Camino is not a hike, it is a Pilgrimage. If you want to know the difference, that's a whole 'nother conversation and far better explained by others, but certainly intent has a lot to do with it. And albergues do not exist for hikers or tourists; they exist for pilgrims. What's a pilgrim? Well, read some Cousineau and get back to me when you have an answer. In the meantime, there's a few specifics that are observed on the Camino, and one of the big no-no's is that you arrive at an albergue under your own power - walking, running, even riding a bike (though walkers might be given first dibs). Horseback? Maybe. Taxi.... in a word, NO.
"But," I hear you say, "the husband was sick." Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't. I saw people dropped off by taxi on the outskirts of town so that they could stroll in and claim a cheap room. So what's the big deal? Nothing, really, except for a place to stay for the night for someone else who might have been walking all day. Was the German woman telling the truth? I honestly don't know. I do know she seemed to protest a bit too much, and she sure was awfully loud about it. I have heard it said that hospitalieros develop a strong intuition about genuine pilgrims vs. tourist pretenders, and maybe the German woman was setting off all sorts of mental alarms. When the husband arrived he didn't look that sick, but I'm no doctor. And maybe yelling is an obnoxious way of getting what you want from people, but maybe yelling is a disparate way of getting something you badly need, too.
Oh, in case you're wondering: the German woman and her husband ended up staying. They complained loudly the whole time.
At this point you may be asking: Is this an ugly German story? No, her nationality isn't my point.
My second story: a day or two later my wife and I stopped, mid-morning, at a sort of cafe on the road. We grabbed a couple of coffees and sat at an outside table and watched the pilgrim traffic walk by, when I spied a fellow walk around the bend with a Purdue tee shirt on. Maybe it was the appearance of something so incongruously familiar, but I couldn't help but yell out, "Hey Purdue!" to the man, who looked at me strangely, then looked down at his shirt, smiled, and waved. And so he stopped, too, grabbed a coffee, came outside and sat next to me. We talked for a moment, quickly establishing that the tee-shirt was the gift of a son or daughter-in-law, that he was a Spaniard and I an American, and that I was James and he was Jamie, so, as he said, "We are the same." Then another man, also a Spaniard sat down next to Jamie, we exchanged our 'Buenos dias', and then they struck up a conversation.
I do not know Spanish. Some might argue that I do not know English, either, but I certainly know very little Spanish. That said, I'm no dummy and 4+ solid years of Latin help me find my way through all sorts of things. So I eavesdropped very intently, and I caught a few things in their words: English. American. Something about not speaking Spanish.
I quickly became upset: here was a fellow I'd just met and befriended and now he was trashing ignorant Americans right next to me! I looked at my wife, suggested we finish our coffees and shove off, and we did so in quick order. But Jamie did the same and so there we were, walking beside this man who was complaining about us moments before. And then something wonderful happened: Jamie made a wrong turn. Or, I should say, he didn't make the right turn. He strode on ahead into what appeared to be a farmer's field, whereas I looked to my right, caught glimpse of splash of yellow paint, and stopped. I will admit that I hesitated, but I called out to Jamie and said, "Jamie.... the road is here." I had to repeat myself, but he came back, looked up, laughed, and said, "You're right! Thanks!" And so we started walking side-by-side again, and since I couldn't take it any more, I asked him, "Jamie.... I have to ask you a question.... back up the road, you talked to the man next to you, and it sounded to me as though you were complaining about Americans, and so I have to ask what you were talking about." And he told me, "No, that's not what we said. What we said was how nice it was to have an American try to say a little Spanish, because the British come over here and live and many of them do not speak any Spanish, and they all live together and try to stay the same, and after twenty years all they know how to do is order a beer."
Now, this story isn't about how this made me feel better, though it did, nor is it about ugly British pilgrims or ex-pats, either.
About once a month my wife and I talk about what it means to be a pilgrim. While we don't agree on several things, we do agree about intention being very important, perhaps the most important thing. "The journey is more important than the destination" may be a worn-out cliche, but for me the most profound moments of the road were in the most mundane places. The main thing the conversation with my wife continues to reinforce is that notion that everyone's pilgrimage is intensely personal and unique. I wish that everyone had the wonderful experience I did. I wish that everyone encountered the generous, kind, and wise pilgrims I did. The truth of the matter is that 100,000+ pilgrims walk the road, all for their own reasons, some joyfully but some painfully, too. This is the lesson I learned on the road: to get past my desire for other pilgrims to think and believe and act the way I do and instead to try to understand why it is that they are the way they are, especially when I see something I don't like. There is always a story, and many times it isn't the one I think it is.
So, Ugly Americans/Germans/French/British/whatever? Heck yes. Ugly because they are continually obnoxious? Sure. Ugly because they are scared and far from home? That, too. Lonely, depressed, and the thousand other reasons people choose to walk hundreds of miles, especially if they've crossed an ocean first? Yes. For some folks, the right moment may not have arrived yet. For some it may never come. I continue to remain hopeful.
