Dear Hospitaller: Confessions of a Pilgrim (and a little Gratitude)
Dear hospitalero, blessed soul of the Camino, lighthouse in the night of blisters and wet socks!
This letter is not a postcard, nor one of those emails with "subject: my life has changed thanks to you" (although almost). This is a confession. A sincere confession from someone who, not so long ago, landed at your hostel with the faith of a charcoal burner and the appearance of a castaway. I remember arriving dragging my backpack, which at that point weighed the same as a teenage elephant, and with a facial expression that oscillated between the joy of "I've arrived" and the agony of "where's the shower?"
You, with that smile that seems trained to dissipate storm clouds and bad vibes, showed me to my bunk. That bunk, oh, the bunk! At first, you look at her with urbanite skepticism. "And do people sleep here?" you ask yourself, while your brain continues to process the low snoring of the person next to you and the murmur of seven different languages coming together in a Tower of Babel of rest. But then, hospitable friend, your bunk becomes the throne of your deepest dreams, where the scratchy wool blanket is softer than silk and the mattress, which previously seemed like stone, is transformed into a cloud of cotton. Thanks, in part, to your magic… and the accumulated kilometers, of course.
I remember that night when a pilgrim, possessed by the spirit of logistics (or perhaps the garlic and onion in the stew), decided to rearrange everyone's footwear at 2 in the morning. I, who had almost reached nirvana in my bunk, heard the "clack, clack" of the boots and the soft snort of the "organizer." You, hospitaler, with the wisdom of a Zen master and the patience of a saint, appeared out of nowhere, resolved the mess with a "shhh" and a movement of the eyebrow that was worth a thousand sermons, and peace reigned again. You are the Sherpa of our backpacks, the psychologist of our existential crises and the laundry guru.
And what about the shower. That shower, as longed for as the Holy Grail. It doesn't matter if the water comes out cold, warm or in fits and starts; It doesn't matter if you have to wait in line with a group of Japanese, some Germans and an Australian family. The mere act of showering in a hostel is a purification. You come out smelling clean (or at least less dirty) and with renewed energy to look for your underwear hanging among the pines. Thank you for the hot water (when it is available) and for understanding our morning rush!
But beyond the bunk beds, the showers and the symphonic snoring, what you truly give us is hospitality. That word that on the Camino acquires an almost sacred dimension. That first look of complicity, the map spread out on the table, the advice about the next stage, the offer of a hot coffee, or simply the respectful silence when your body only asks for peace. You are the guardian of an ancient tradition, the link in a human chain that makes this journey possible for thousands of souls.
So, from the bottom of my heart (and my battered feet), I want to thank you, Hospitaller. Thank you for your patience with the clumsy one who doesn't know how to put on the washing machine, with the inveterate snorer, with the one who asks for the fifth time where the supermarket is. Thank you for your advice, for your smile, for your discreet but fundamental presence. You are the backbone of this universal phenomenon, the hero without a cape who helps us reach Santiago with our souls a little lighter and our hearts a little fuller.
Bon Camino, hospitable, and may Karma return every good deed to you multiplied!
With eternal gratitude (and no blisters for now),
One more pilgrim.
