We often romanticize these long, arduous journeys and in the process, fall into the trap of expecting everyone around us to recognize and be sympathetic to our “hardships”, self-inflicted as they might be. We want friendly faces and welcoming arms along the way — for people in the cities we pass through to smile and say “Buen Camino!” as we walk by, for hospitaleros and restauradores to be sweet and kind, to commiserate with us and console us when we are having a tough day, and provide all cure necessary for our hungry stomachs and tired feet.
Compared to pilgrims of yesteryears, who often never made it to Santiago due to illness or robbery, those attempting the Walk these days actually have it easy. There are, in fact, a community of innkeepers and bar/restaurant owners along the routes that ensure that travelers have shelters and food on their way to Santiago. And so far, we had not encountered any situations where we felt unsafe. Also, since many of these businesses are located in small cities and villages, my guess is that the pilgrims make up a big part of their economy. Sometimes, judging by the size of the town, I even wondered if some of the cafés and bars we encountered would survive without the walkers.
The services provided by these places are basic, but sufficient. A bed and shower. A place to eat and drink. Sometimes the beds look clean, other times they don’t. Sometimes they provide blankets, other times there aren’t any. Sometimes the restaurant serves pilgrim’s meal (read: hot food), sometimes bocadillos (sandwiches) and Spanish tortillas (potato and egg frittata) are all they have. But one always find a bed to sleep on and something to fill their stomachs. That’s for sure.
But don’t expect hospitality on the road. Even though these places do cater and advertise to pilgrims, they’re often curt. Like the caretaker in the albergue in Cea who barely said a word as he registered us and made no effort to make us feel welcome. (Interestingly, the message board was filled with kind words from previous peregrinos complimenting his cordiality. Were they being sarcastic?)
Or like the bar owner in Silleda who was combative from the moment we sat down, unwilling to tell us what kind of food she served, offended when we asked for the menu, and plain angry when we asked if we could order a side of fries after the food arrived. “Antes, sí; ahora, NO!” she lashed out. Instead of sharing her reluctance to reignite the stove to fry the potatoes, she assumed we knew better than to order another hot food. You should have ordered it earlier, she continued to yell at us. There was so much hostility in her voice that my instinct was to get up and leave. We didn’t have to suffer the indignity of being scolded by this woman. But I was hungry so I played the stupid tourist card and just smiled, pretending not to understand Spanish and all the vitriol that just came out of her mouth.
Our experience was not unique. When we traded notes with other people we met at the albergue or on the road, they recalled similar experiences on the Camino. “But that’s el parte de Camino,” one guy concluded. That’s part and parcel of the Walk: to endure these not-so-nice and not-so-welcoming people along the way.
Though I was no longer mad, I was still thinking about the angry lady this evening. I’d never find out why she was especially rude to us. Perhaps she was in a bad mood. Perhaps she was annoyed that we switched table or that I took off my shoes and changed into my sandals inside the restaurant. Perhaps the law of demand (tens of thousands of pilgrims each year) and supply (her restaurant being one of the 3 or 4 in town) makes it such that she can be as mean as she wants to the pilgrims and they will still come by the thousands.
Or, perhaps there was no rhyme nor reason for her attitude and that our expectation of hospitality and niceties from the locals is nothing but a form of entitlement, an egoistical wish that the world be gentle to us and that people should understand our suffering when we often don’t realize the suffering of others?