I pressed my back against the wall of the Albergue Parroquial de Santa Maria del Camino and took one deep breath after another, trying hard to compose myself. The wooden bench seats stretched around the room encircling what normally served as the entrance to this local lodging for pilgrims walking the Camino de Santiago de Compostela. Now the room was full of peregrinos, the Spanish word for pilgrims, seated in any space they could find. Bodies filled every square inch of bench as well as each stair up the albergue’s winding staircase and still more on the floor, three and four rows deep, squeezed in like sardines, waiting.

I’d arrived in Carrión de los Condes a few hours before. Debbie, Pat, the couple I’d met from Arizona, and I had already checked in to our shared room in the albergue, taken our showers and gone off in different directions to explore the town. By now I’d been on the Camino for just about 15 days, starting my journey on May 31st from St. Jean Pied de Port in the French Pyrenees, the traditional starting point for the Camino Frances. Many of the towns along the Camino were nondescript, villages more than anything else and the truth was, I had a hard time remembering one from the other. But Carrión de los Condes was different. Carrión de los Condes had the singing nuns.

Except for the brief mention in the guidebook I was using, I’d likely not have even known about this town’s unusual feature. Where, when and what they might sing was a complete mystery. Never mind that I didn’t really have any details. I just knew I had to see them.

I saw Aussie Mark and Martine from Croatia outside the cathedral and asked them if they had heard anything about the nuns. They’d heard from some fellow peregrinos that they would be singing at 6:00 in the municipal albergue. I thanked them and promised to meet them there. As it was still early, I decided to continue my wandering and stepped inside the cavernous church. I found my way up to the altar just in time to catch a few minutes of a group of white habit-clad sisters singing religious songs accompanied by one of their own on the electric piano. In addition to their habits they were wearing white fleece jackets, perhaps to protect them from the chill in the old stone church.

Was this what I was looking for? Perhaps Mark and Martine had been mistaken. But the church was all but empty except for a few of us who had stumbled upon this impromptu concert. This couldn’t be what all the hype was about.

A little before 6:00, I found my way over to the municipal albergue and chose a spot just under the stairwell, on the hardwood bench against the back wall. Debbie and Pat came in shortly after, as did Mark and Martine, Rafael, the gentle Brazilian and dozens of other peregrinos I did not know. The room was pungent with anticipation as more and more people squeezed in, saying hello with the traditional “Buen Camino” greeting we used along “The Way”. Before too long the nuns joined us, the same sisters I’d seen at the church. This time they carried instruments with them. The electric piano was replaced by a couple of guitars, a handful of percussion instruments and a stack of well used song sheets. The nuns were younger than I realized, their soft skin and dark hair peeking out from under their white veils.

“Bienvenidos,” the youngest one said. She had a kind face and a warm smile and spoke English fairly well. I guessed she couldn’t have been much older than 30. “Welcome. Before we get started, we’d like you to introduce yourselves. Tell us where you are from and why you are walking the Camino.”

It was the question I’d heard most often since I’d begun the journey on the 31st of May. Why are you walking the Camino? Why was I walking the Camino? Despite the fact that I’d been faced with that question more than once, I hadn’t settled on an answer: I was turning 60 this year and it seemed like a good thing to do to celebrate a big birthday. My mother had died a few years earlier and I’d recently completed my first memoir that explored my often tempestuous relationship with her. I lost my father to ALS, spending the last few months of his life in a wheelchair. In fact, tied to my backpack were two scallop shells with their names scribbled on them. Perhaps I was walking the Camino for them.

But while all of the these “reasons” sounded good, none of them felt like the right answer. It was all so unsatisfying. I’d met people along the way with much clearer purposes than mine. They were celebrating a recovery from cancer. Carrying their wife’s ashes to rest in Santiago de Compostela. Raising money for a favorite charity at home. The truth was, I didn’t really know why I was walking. I just was. From the first time I’d heard about the ancient pilgrimage, I knew I had to go.

And so here I was, in this municipal albergue in a tiny little town packed full of people I had not yet met, from places I had never heard of, speaking languages I did not understand. That’s the way it had been now for 15 days. Each day walking along the path that tens of thousands had walked before for hundreds of years. Sometimes I walked alone, sometimes with others, through unremarkable towns, dirt paths and rolling hills for more kilometers than I could count, to finally settle down for the night in a shared dormitory with dozens of others who were doing the same thing.

I’d come alone on this pilgrimage. Despite the requests from several friends to join me, I knew this was a journey I needed to take on my own. I’d arrived that first night in St. Jean Pied de Port with my empty credencial, the passport pilgrims carry to collect stamps to mark the stops along The Way and with little expectation of what I might find. Now, 15 days in with at least as many to go, that tabula rasa from that first night was filled with so many memories I could barely keep them straight.

I felt my breath catch in my throat and before long I felt the sting of tears in my eyes. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my unexpected emotions. I listened as the peregrinos to the right of me began to introduce themselves. They were from Spain and Poland, Germany and Sweden. It was their first Camino, or their fourth. They were walking with their wife or their daughter, their mother or alone - to celebrate their anniversary, in gratitude for their recovery from back surgery or to deepen their faith.

With each testimony I struggled to fight back tears. What would I say? How could I express what I was feeling in that moment? Could I even find the words or would I just dissolve into a pool of tears as I always seemed to in these moments of deep emotion. Despite the fact that I had had more than two weeks to arrive at an answer to this fundamental question, I still did not understand. What were my tears about? Why was I so feeling so vulnerable?

As the introductions moved around the room and got closer and closer to me, I struggled to gain control of my emotions. “My name is Suzanne,” I said, pausing to take a deep breath. “I’m from California.” I looked around at the faces that were watching me. I could hear my voice beginning to crack and I paused for a second to steady myself again. “I’m turning 60 this year and...” I forced a smile as I let my voice trail off. I had managed to avoid a complete breakdown.

I wondered why I was so emotional. It had come upon me quite unexpectedly. All through the introductions I found myself straining to maintain my composure. It continued even once the singing started. The song sheets were filled with a variety of songs from all around the world. The sisters led us in song, including the unofficial Camino anthem, Ultreia, singing the choruses and asking us to sing along. Ultreïa ! Ultreïa ! E suseia Deus adjuva nos! The voices permeated the room, the ranges and octaves and various accents creating a harmony unlike anything I had ever heard before. Tears streamed down my face.

After it was over I stood up to leave, Instead of walking to the door I found myself walking towards the nuns who were milling about, talking with the pilgrims. “Muchismas gracias Hermana,” I said in my best Spanish as the tears streamed down my face. “Estoy muy emocional. Esto es un noche extraorinario para me.”

“De nada,” the sister responded as she reached out to give me a hug. “Vaya con Dios, peregrina.”

An hour later I returned to the church for the pilgrim mass. I hadn’t gone to mass since my first night at the monastery in Roncesvalles. After the celebration was finished, the priest invited the pilgrims to the altar. “Buenos tarde,” he said and then proceeded to welcome each one of us in our native language. “I would like to invite each of you to come forward for a personal blessing. After you receive your blessing, the sisters have a small gift for you.”

“It is very lightweight,” one of the sisters added with a smile and we all laughed. Two weeks in we were very mindful about adding any weight to our already overloaded backpacks.

I got in line behind a handsome Spaniard I recognized from the gathering with the nuns earlier and folded my hands the way I would if I were going to receive communion. When I reached the front of the line, I bowed my head as the priest placed his hands on my shoulders and recited a version of the prayer I had heard after the mass in Roncevalles on that first night.

“O God, who brought your servant Abraham out of the land of the Chaldeans, protecting him in his wanderings, who guided the Hebrew people across the desert, we ask that you watch over us, your servants, as we walk in the love of your name to Santiago de Compostela.

Be for us our companion on the walk,
 Our guide at the crossroads,

Our breath in our weariness,

Our protection in danger,


Our albergue on the Camino,

Our shade in the heat,

Our light in the darkness,

Our consolation in our discouragements,
 And our strength in our intentions.

So that with your guidance we may arrive safe and sound at the end of the Road and enriched with grace and virtue we return safely to our homes filled with joy.

In the name of Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.
 Apostle Santiago, pray for us.

Santa Maria, pray for us.“

“Amen,” I said and stepped into the line to wait for the gift from the sisters. I reached out my hand to receive a small, two-inch multicolored paper star.

“This is to remind you that you are the light,” Sister said to us after we had all received our stars. “Like stars in the sky, you are called to bring light into the world. One by one, you can be the light for someone but when we join together, we can illuminate even the darkest night.”

I turned the small paper star over in my hand and inhaled in deeply as if to breath in the energy of the room in that moment. The sister’s words, while spoken to the dozens of us who had gathered, felt personal to me, a reminder, perhaps, of something I already knew but needed to be reminded of. Like the stars in the sky, we are not alone. We are never alone.

I wandered back to the albergue after mass, looking around for Irish John. I’d met John in the early days on the Camino and it seemed like almost every day we walked at least part of the trail together. He usually got a later start than me in the mornings, but he walked quickly and by 10:30 or so, he usually caught up with me and we’d continue the rest of the way together, covering the daily 30 kilometer trek and reaching the next town by around 2:00, just in time to find a place to stay, take a quick shower and settle down with a pint of cerveza con limón, my preferred drink on the Camino. But John was no where to be found and I was starting to think that I was going to have to eat dinner alone, something I was not too keen on doing. Next to the albergue was a restaurant. “The best food in town,” the hospitalero had said when we’d checked in. I pulled open the door and found John staring at me.

“There you are,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you. We’re just about to get dinner.” I wouldn’t have to eat alone after all. Like the stars in the sky, we are not alone. We are never alone.

I would return to those words a few more times during the remainder of my Camino. After a few weeks walking together, a group of us had grown close, forming what we called our “Camino family.” Irish John, Mark and Martine, Rafael, the Polish couple, Smitha, Alex, Patrick and Maria. These were the faces I saw every day, the people I greeted with “Buen Camino” as we passed each other on the way. The ones I drank cerveza con limón with in the evenings while we enjoyed our pilgrim meals. Two weeks in we’d shared our lives with each other in a such a way that time seemed meaningless. Although I had come to walk the Camino alone, I had never felt more connected in all my life.

A few days later all that would change. I would be forced to spend an extra night in León. Two and a half weeks into my journey blisters formed across the balls and heels of my feet making it too painful to walk. As reality began to sink in, I could feel the fear inside me begin to build. The group of pilgrims I had been walking with, my pilgrim “family”, would go on without me. I would be alone again and as much as I fought the need to stop, even temporarily, I knew I didn’t have much choice.

On the day my family walked on, I limped into a pilgrim shop to see what I could do to take care of my feet. The shopkeeper sold me a pair of socks promising me that they would be the cure for what ailed me.

“Socks?” I said. I wasn’t easily swayed. He nodded.

“Take off all the bandages. Put skin to sock. You’ll thank me. I promise.” I wondered how many peregrinos he’d pitched with the same spiel.

“OK,” I said, unconvinced but by then I was in so much pain I was willing to try anything.

The next morning I awoke early, put on my magic socks, slipped my backpack on my back and began again. Alone, I walked gingerly out of town. The socks worked. And then I met Benny. And Melissa. And Anabella. You see, the thing I didn’t know was that the Camino is one big family. We’re all walking together, finding our own way. In taking that extra day of rest in León, I hadn’t lost my family, I’d expanded it. Like the roads I had not yet walked, here were new people to meet, new stories to hear, new memories to create. As William Butler Yeats had said, “There are no strangers here; Only friends you haven’t met yet.”

I walked into Santiago de Compostela on July 1st. I had been on the Camino for 32 days including the extra day of rest in León. The day before I’d sent Irish John a text.

“Wait for me to walk to Finisterre.” I said. Although the Camino officially ends at the Cathedral in Santiago, pilgrims sometimes continue to walk to the coastal town of Finisterre, once considered the end of the world.

“OK,” Irish John had texted back. “It will be good to have a friend to walk with.” But by the time I got to Santiago, he was gone.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“I’m on my way to Finisterre,” he replied. “I got to Santiago early and just needed to keep going. I never planned to finish my Camino there anyway.”

My heart sunk. I wondered why he hadn’t waited. Why he’d left without me. I felt hurt. Disappointed. Confused. I found myself questioning the time we had spent together. I wondered why he didn’t seem to feel as connected to me as I did to him? I walked down the stone steps into the square and pulled my backpack off my back.

“Suzanne. You made it!” I heard someone calling my name. I turned to see Alex, my friend from Hamburg, coming towards me, his arms outstretched. We had walked together in the early days. He grabbed me and put me in a big bear hug.

“You’re still here,” I said. I had heard from another pilgrim that Alex was leaving early that morning to go back to Hamburg. I was afraid I was going to miss him.

“I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye,” he said as we hugged. “I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to my dear friend.”

Like they had so many times along the way, the Sister’s words rang once again. “One by one, you can be the light for someone but when we join together, we can illuminate even the darkest night.” Like the stars in the sky, we are not alone. We are never alone.

And it was in that moment that I finally understood. This was why I walked.

Ultreia was chosen as a finalist for the 2019 Adelaide Literary Award and published in the 2019 Adelaide Literary Award Essay Anthology.