Leaving Los Arcos
On the morning of the Friday before Easter, I woke up in Los Arcos. I had a long walk to Logrono that day, and as I ate breakfast, tumultuous rain clouds were just moving on.
It was my habit that while walking and conditions of the day changed, my outfit would change as well. If it grew sunny later in the day, my rainproof pants would come off revealing a long pair of cargo pants underneath, and my waterproof coat would be shed as well. As the day warmed, my down vest and sweatshirt would come off, in lieu of a short sleeve t-shirt. The bottoms of my pant legs zipped on and off, making the pants shorts when I needed them to be, usually in the afternoon. By early evening, I would have to reapply all the previously stripped clothes as the sun’s warmth faded.
But for now, I was decked out in full bad-weather regalia.
I plodded through town and noticed that as I moved townsfolk began to join me: some at my side, who glanced at me and nodded gruffly; some behind, who sped up to over take me; and in front, two priests and an attendant. I found it curious and wondered what might be up. Why this small parade of villagers making their way through the town on this stormy morning?
We crossed the river Odrón on the road out of town, and as the group ahead and about me turned right off the straight but narrowing road ahead, I followed. I saw no path markers for the Camino and figured the main way out of town must proceed where the townspeople were going.
Those in front of me stopped abruptly, and one of the priests took up a position on the side of an ordinary looking house. The crowd I was with stopped. So did I, backing out from the group to try to figure out what was up. About twenty people had now gathered, and that’s when it hit me.
It was Good Friday; they were marking the Stations of the Cross at spots around town.
I watched for a bit, but then felt like I was intruding. Gingerly and quietly, I turned to proceed in the direction we had all been travelling before stopping. I walked about twenty yards away, when I heard someone calling in a hushed yell (like a stage whisper), “Señor! Señor!”
I spun about and saw a man from the group quickly approach me. Heads were turning, trying not to stare, but even the priest who had been speaking was distracted.
The man who had gotten my attention reached me and began immediately speaking in fast Spanish. I had no idea of what he was saying. He grabbed my arm and began to pull me back toward the gathered congregation. Had I insulted them somehow by leaving in the middle of their prayers? How would I atone for such a slight? What did they want from me?
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t understand. What did I do? Do you speak English? Can you explain?”
The man stopped dragging me and screamed at the group assembled before us, referring to me. They had stopped their service and were all staring at me now.
A small fragile elderly woman separated from the bunch. She came toward us, scowling it appeared, but then her face brightened up into a lovely smile.
“You are going the wrong way. You want the Camino? It is that way, behind us and on that narrow way out of town.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!! Lo siento! Lo siento!”
“No hay problema,” she kindly said, nodding. She and the man went back to the group.
The priest waved to me with a smile. As did all twenty people.
“Buon Camino! Buon Camino!” They called to me, as I passed them by, waving in return.
When I had reached the cross street, I turned right and looked behind me. They had returned to their prayers, but the elderly woman who had spoken to me was still following me with her eyes. Giving a last smile and slight wave, she turned back to her devotions.
I guess I had chosen the right path after all.