Flying Home

The first big difference I noticed in America was that we move very fast. Everything we do is fast. We want our food fast. We want our news fast. We drive fast. We pump gas fast. We stand before a microwave and shout, “HURRY UP!!!!”

In Spain, nothing was fast. You could celebrate four birthdays just waiting for a server to bring the check.

Something else I noticed after our plane arrived in the US was customer service. In Spain, there is none.

At a restaurant in Spain, for instance, the waiters don’t do small talk. As an American, it takes time to get used to this.

When you order a coffee in Spain, for example, you are expected to stride up to your cashier and say confidently, “Un café,” the step aside. You don’t even say “please” when you order because this would waste, perhaps, three nanoseconds of your barista's valuable time.

In America, however, to order a coffee, you ease up to the counter like you’re on a golf course. You begin a conversation with your server about the weather, maybe ask how her mom’s new hip is doing, then show her your class ring. Then, and only then, will you take a few seconds to center yourself, drawing in a full, cleansing breath, whereupon, while browsing the overhead menu you will exhale a huge sigh, simultaneously saying, “Okay now, let’s seeeeeee here, what do I wannnnnt…?”

And it’s not just small talk the Spanish avoid. Amenities are also kept to a minimum.

One example of this was when the woman at my American hotel asked whether I had enough towels although there were six towels in my room. Six.

This was your standard, no-frills double-bed room. And yet it had an air conditioner, a mini fridge, a genuine “pleather” wingback chair, a coffeemaker, an ice bucket, a hairdryer, complimentary soap, shampoo, bath gel, AND moisturizing lotion, and a flat-screen TV that was roughly the size of a shopping-mall parking lot. We had enough towels for a basketball team and its respective mascot.

And still this sweet American woman behind the counter was asking whether I “have enough towels.”

One of the most visible differences you notice when coming back to America after a European visit is that our national standard of dress is WAY different.

In the States, we tend to dress down for everything. Today, for example, on our commercial flight, I counted 37 persons wearing full pajamas. Eighteen were wearing slippers. And my wife pointed out that 3 of these persons were not—if we’re being technical—wearing a bra.

In Spain, they would not check the mail without wearing a bra. And that’s just the men.

But the biggest difference, by far, that I noticed was the way the Spanish treat the Spiritual Pursuit.

In Spain, religion is everywhere. It’s a way of life. Whether they agree with religion or they are atheists, they respect it. It’s important somehow.

When locals heard we were walking the Camino de Santiago, they almost all responded with gentle reverent gasps. “Ahh, the Camino,” they would all reply, as though we had just discovered a cure for a terminal illness. They behaved as though what we were doing was REALLY important.

This was in stark contrast to many of my America buddies who, when they heard I was going to walk the Camino, all replied, “You’re doing WHAT? But WHY?”

The subject of spirituality seemed to be handled by the Spanish as though it had value. Religion was often openly discussed, in public, by people with different viewpoints, with a deep sense of understanding.

Again, this was different from my American upbringing. I was reared by staunch fundamentalists, extremely religious people who believed purchasing life insurance was a form of gambling. Religion was my life. And yet EVEN I was raised to believe it’s impolite to speak of God or politics in public.

Which is hard for me to reconcile. Somehow, in America, the topic of God carries the same explosive volatility as the subject of Capitol Hill.

I realize I’m generalizing here, but as usual, I don’t actually care. Because as I reintroduce myself into American society, after hiking the Camino de Santiago, I am praying that I carry a few of the lessons I learned with me.

I’m praying I learn to embrace people’s differing opinions with reverence. I’m praying I learn to treat everyone’s life journey with the same respect I was shown in Spain. I’m praying I can finally learn how to love my enemies. I’m praying I learn to S-L-O-W down.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s time that I start wearing a bra in public.