I've discovered Spanish Summer Camp. It's called the Camino de Santiago.

In the past two days, the average age of the pilgrim has dropped from 45 to 15. Everywhere you look, awkward barely-teenage guys sport their hip shaved-in-the-front-dirty-rat-tail-in-the-back haircuts and stylish acne as they hit on girls that are way WAY too young for me to say are hot (even though they are).

Nighttime has become a veritible chorus of farts, giggles, burps, and voice-cracking Castillean (what they call the language we learn as Spanish). Christina and I have given up trying to arrive early to the Albergue to get beds. They´re full before we reach half-way. Now we´ll settle for anything Not-A-Tent.

Everything is so different because we are in "almost there" range of Santiago. According to Catholic tradition, to recieve your Compostela (the reward for completing the trek), you must walk at least 100km. In the Middle Ages, this precious little certificate entitled you to 1/3 off of Purgatory time. In an Ano Santo (Holy Year, like this year, a year where St. James´ feast day falls on a Sunday), the reward is DOUBLED. That´s right, beautiful beautiful Indulgence. A pilgrim once joked that with it, you could commit one murder, or two armed robberies. Nowadays, it means a couple free meals around town, maybe a discounted rate on a flight home, and hopefully a lil something intangible, as well. Probably no murder though. Probably.

All the same, the thing about the Camino is that its sort of a Rite of Passage for Spanish youth. For centuries, it was legally mandatory to do it. These days its just tradition, which might be just as powerful.

So, Rite of Passage + 100km = H oly Crowded Camino, Batman.

In the past three nights, we´ve become reacquainted with our good friend the ground, learned that the bicep can be a pillow, tested the limits of "odor resistant" travel underwear, showered in appendenge-shrinking cold, and remembered what its like to poop standing up over a hole.

At first I was a little frustrated. Who were these little punks, with no backpacks, no exaustion, and no blisters!? Forget that. This was p-i-l-g-r-i-m-a-g-e damnit, and if I didn´t know exactly what that meant, I sure as hell knew what it didn´t mean, and it didn´t mean a high school sleepover.

As the French say though Cést la Vie (pronounced: Sest lah Vee in American). I remember what its like to be a 15 year old; awkward, horny, pimply, annoying, constantly hoping that the next cool thing I did would be noticed by some member of the opposite sex, preferrably one interested in making out and maybe even a little light petting. Who am I to hate them for those same things now? Maybe this isn´t in the "true spirit" of the Camino, but even St. James was 15 once. I´m sure he´s chill.

Anyway, we drop on Santiago in 48 hours, so even the inconvenient parts are almost over. Besides, the odor-fighting drawers are better than their money´s worth so far. As for the appendage-shrinking showers, I´ve got nothing to prove.