Behind the Albergue Door: Inspiration Agony Adventure on the Camino de Santiago

bubbly personalities and a genuine desire to communicate with the locals. Others gush about every meal, every coffee, every lightly scented bathroom soap, and then tip really well. Some use self-deprecating humour directed at their own physical abilities, personal hygiene and unpredictable bowel movements. But if you really want to make your mark, leave a legacy, amuse and delight the masses, well, really your only option is to leave an old pair of hiking shoes perched on a Camino kilometre marker. I mean, each of the several times each day we saw this we couldn’t help but laugh out loud that someone could be so clever, and witty, and metaphorical, that they could manage to take what many would call irresponsible and tasteless littering, and turn it into such a work of art. Brilliant, just brilliant.
    Are the grapes along the trail fair game?
    This one seems to be up for a considerable amount of debate. We heard all of the following responses at one time or another:
    “Sure, that’s what they’re there for.”
    “I think it’s fine as long as you don’t overdo it. One or two garbage bags full, max.”
    “No way! It’s stealing. Would you take that farmer’s tractor just because it was sitting next to the road?”
    “The way I look at it there has to be some give and take. The farmers know there are hundreds of hungry pilgrims passing through their fields every day and expect a few to get nicked here and there. Just like they expect to occasionally lose a dog or two, and maybe one of their daughter’s bras off the line now and then.”
    “Those are grapes? I thought that’s where rabbit shit came from.”
    One day we were just shy of Belorado and had been loosely walking in a large fluctuating group through expansive fields of grapes for most of the morning with people occasionally pilfering a handful here and there with no one really thinking much about it. The wide open fields and waist high vines offered little opportunity for discreet urination for a tall lad such as myself, so at one point I had just spent a considerable amount of time working to create some space for myself – lagging behind the frontrunners, staying comfortably ahead of the slow group, doing a really exaggerated stroll so as not to arouse suspicion – and finally decided that my moment had come. A quick detour on to a side trail offering just a hint of vine coverage (both literally and metaphorically) and I was just about to let loose with a bright yellow burst (bright yellow because it was a Vitamin B day, not because it was a severe dehydration day – we did that on Thursdays) when a little truck came bombing up the hill and inexplicably decided to pull a U-turn right where I guiltily stood with my hand on my fly. I scrambled to zip back up and reduce the level of awkwardness by portraying an intentionally casual demeanor while returning his wave with one hand still on my crotch. Exactly why I thought this swarthy little farmer would be at all upset about some guy pissing in the ditch in the middle of nowhere, or why he would prefer to see that guy instead waving at passersby while loitering in a ditch with his hand on his junk just around the corner from a dead badger is a mystery I can’t fully explain. But for whatever reason, at the time I felt I needed to hold off until he was gone. Which he almost was, back the way he had come for some reason, and I was just starting to experience some blessed relief when I heard the truck skid to a sudden stop. I desperately pinched it off, foolishly worrying that for some reason he had belatedly figured out what I was up to and was coming back to show me what they did with guys who defiled dead rodents in these here parts. I ignored the stabbing pain in my urethra, yanked up my zipper in a panic for the second time in less than twenty seconds and staggered back to the road looking, I’m sure, completely unsuspicious, like I was just another average pilgrim enjoying the Camino, enjoying the scenery and every once in a while taking a short break to play with a dead animal carcass. At which point I was tremendously relieved to see he wasn’t even looking my way but rather was now entirely focused on a friend of ours caught in mid-grape pilfer, his large backpack causing him to wobble slightly as he bent down to get at the juiciest low hanging grapes and scavenge the ground dwellers, his other hand already overflowing with round purple goodness. At the sound of the truck he