The Kiss

Grey clouds keep rolling in as I walk down the main road of the village.  A man is coming out of his vegetable patch and I greet him.  I ask if it will rain the next day.  He says that he doesn't know for the weather pattern is not the same anymore.

As we walk together talking about all sorts, he reaches into his basket and offers me a fat cucumber, ripened by the sun.  As I thank him, he laughs with deep satisfaction.  And when we part ways, a pilgrim's heart, with the sound of warm laughter and a ripe cucumber, sings a song of gratitude.

The following day,  I finish at St. Nicolas, the Pilgrims Hospital of days gone by.  It is now run by an Italian order from Perugia.  It is still a hospital and there is no charge.  Only a donation if the pilgrim so wishes.  There is no electricity and the simple building is lit by candles.  It dates from the tenth century, if not earlier.  It is rectangular, with a high window on each side.  To the left, there is a simple altar.  To the right, a few bunk beds.  In the middle, a long table.  

The hospital can only take 12 pilgrims.  I am the tenth pilgrim to arrive.  The last two pilgrims are a young university couple from Russia - Alexander and Valentina.  Their names have an aristocratic ring to it and I think of the Czars from Russia and the novel, Doctor Zivago.

The meal is prepared by the hospitaleiros. A simple dish of pasta, a salad, and fruit for desert.  I offer my cucumber, a small gesture of gratitude and of sharing to the hospitaleiro. When he learns that I come from South Africa he tells me that his father was a prisoner of war in Bloemfontein. The table has been set and Senor Miguel´s wine is served in typical Italian bottles.

Before the meal, the pilgrims are called to the altar where we sit in a semi-circle. The following words are spoken to each pilgrim, by name: Jovita, in the name of Jesus Christ, we welcome you to St. Nicolas´ Hospital. May the rest comfort you and repair your forces so that you may continue your pilgrimage to Santiago.  I answer:  Amen.  And while these words are being spoken, me feet are being washed, then dried. And kissed.

At the end, we say the Our Father, the Lord's prayer, in our own language.  I say it in my heart, for my voice is unsteady.  Warm tears roll down my cheek.  My heart is humbled.

Buen Camino!

Jovita

1 October 2013