I have huge admiration for hospitalero/as, as I know I could never do it myself – mentally, spiritually, temperamentally, and, now, physically. I really wish I could, as it must be one of the most rewarding ways of “giving back” to the camino. Please don’t tell me I can; we are all different and I know I can’t.
But let me tell you a story of how NOT to be a hospitalera. It was a once-off. Every other hospitalero/a I have encountered has been wonderful. It was a “municipal” in France. I arrived late afternoon (about 5pm) and the door was locked, so I rang the bell. After a while she came and let me in, and locked the front door again with a key, which she put in her pocket. She showed me where to put my boots, my rain jacket and stick, then told me to wait, as she was just checking in another pelerine upstairs. There was a plastic chair so I sat and waited.
And waited and waited. I could faintly hear them chatting upstairs. After 20 minutes I realised that she must have forgotten all about me, so I went up the stairs, and popped my head around the door. At first she looked at me blankly, then suddenly remembered who I was. No problem, I said, and she finished checking in the other pelerine, and came back downstairs with a large plastic rectangular bucket, and told me to put my backpack in it.
I looked at this in dismay, as I was physically unable to lift it with a 8kg pack inside it (I have osteoarthritis in my lower spine). I told her I was terribly sorry, but please could I carry my backpack upstairs as normal on my back, and then I will put it directly into the plastic tray once I was upstairs. She looked at me severely, and carried the tray, with the pack in it, up the stairs herself.
The checking in process took forever while she interrogated me with all kinds of questions. I am a very private person and I found her questions extremely intrusive, but I was finally allowed to go into the dorm and meet my three room mates, who were really nice; three lovely ladies, from three different countries, also walking solo, just like me. Just the four of us (and the hospitalera) staying that night.
After a long day of walking alone, hoping for some congenial company at the gite that evening, for some strange reason, having taken an hour to check in, I now desperately needed to “escape” and I headed back down to the front door, which was locked and I couldn’t open it. So I went back upstairs and asked her where the fire exit was, as I was beginning to get a bit panicky now. She showed me the back entrance, and then unlocked the front door to let me out.
I found a supermarket, bought some things for supper, hit the bar for a much needed very large glass of vin de blanc, wrote up my journal while there, and returned to the hostel, which of course was locked, and I had to ring the bell.
They were having supper – the hospitalera (or whatever the word is in French), and my three room mates. I joined them at the table with the few items I had bought. She reigned supreme, demanding that I take some of the bread. I didn’t want any bread, so politely said non, merci; she was offended. The others ducked their heads pretending not to notice. It was the worst communal supper I have ever experienced in my life. She was so dominant and we four peregrinas were, well, just trying to be good, thankful peregrinas. We really wanted to be alone, to chat quietly amongst ourselves. I got through the evening by telling myself that this was her calling, I could never do what she was doing, I should be admiring her, not hating her, but was I glad to get out of there next morning . . . after I had had to ask her to unlock the front door of course.
Sorry, just needed to get that off my chest. I am grateful, really; I just need to do a few more caminos and I’ll get there . . . working on it.
As for what HAVE I given back to the camino? Well, maybe, after taking a couple of groups from home on the camino, because, individually, they all said they “could never ever in a million years walk across Spain alone”, I am pleased to report back that some of them are now doing just that . . . and consequently learning all the lessons that such an endeavour demands of them . . . .