I’ve been thinking a lot recently about a story that will be in Walking to the End of the World.
Linda, my developmental editor who was generally right about everything, expressed some concern about keeping this anecdote in the final book. She worried that it would make me seem too critical and would turn readers off. I opted to keep it in, though. For the sake of the narrative, I think it sets up some of the challenges Eric and I had as we transitioned from the Via Podiensis (the Camino route from Le Puy to Saint Jean Pied-de-Port) to the Camino Frances (from SJPP to Santiago).
More than that, it was an important experience for me, a reminder of how thoughtless words can affect others, especially when you’re engaging with people from other places, other cultures, and other backgrounds. I know I had my own moments, especially at the end of a long day, when my words got ahead of my perception. These moments happen, and not just on the Camino.
So what do you think? How would you/do you handle the careless comments of a thoughtless person?
Note: this happened in Roncevalles, after the grueling climb over the Pyrenees and just a few hours after my Camino Miracle. For most people walking the Camino Frances, this is the end of their first day. For us, this was Day 36.
There were tired, awkward, happy pilgrims everywhere, waiting in lines for showers and getting in each other’s way in the hallways. It would take time for them all to find their routines, and we decided the best thing to do until then was stay out of the way. Eric and I got settled as quickly as possible and then left in search of a bar and a celebratory drink.
We found The Dane and Caroline at an outdoor table, surrounded by their group of French admirers. We greeted one another, even the French guys we’d barely met before, like old friends. Beers were passed and stories shared. The group kept the conversation mostly in English for our sake.
I noticed that a man sitting alone at the table behind us was clearly eavesdropping. He was probably in his fifties, with a button-down shirt stretched tight over a sizable paunch. When I heard him talking to the server with an American accent, I smiled and said hello. It was still so novel to meet an American.
So yes, what happened next is all my fault.
Without more of an invitation, the man — we’ll call him John* — pulled his chair up to our table and started to talk. And talk. And talk.
Have you heard the stereotype of the “ugly American” abroad? You know, the uncomfortably loud, arrogant, ethnocentric, insensitive clod with the white knee socks and the loud opinions?
That was John.
He told the group he was from northern California, and how perfect it was there compared to everywhere else in the world. This had been his first day on the Camino, yet he lectured us on the best gear to carry and the right food to eat. He told us about all of the other long-distance hikes he’d done in different parts of the world. “Those were real hikes,” he said, waving a hand dismissively around him. “This Camino thing is a walk in the park.”
I laughed and challenged him a bit, telling him about the 500 miles that everyone else at the table had already walked, through mud and over roller coaster hills. “Hell of a park,” I said.
“Six weeks in France?” John not only didn’t take the hint, but he picked up a shovel and dug himself deeper. “I wouldn’t want to do that. I’ve been to Paris.” He puffed up a bit at this, and I wondered if he understood that several of the people at the table lived in Paris. “I don’t get what the big deal is. Just a lot of people too interested in what clothes they’re wearing. The language is terrible. The whole place isn’t that great.”
There was a long, awkward pause. Not all of our friends spoke English fluently, but they understood enough. I saw a few quick glances in our direction. Would we defend him?
Eric turned and said something to Caroline in French. I had no idea what, but it didn’t matter. Our allegiance was declared. Without another beat, the conversation switched exclusively to French. I could follow enough to laugh at the right places and throw in a word here and there.
Effectively shut out, after a few awkward minutes John got up and moved away. When we tried to apologize for his behavior, our friends waved us off. Every culture has someone like him.
*I have no memory of what his real name was. I really hope it’s not John.