Lost in Translation: Pilgrims, Ponchos, and the Peculiar Charm of Roncesvalles

Nestled so close to the French border that you can practically hear the baguettes baking, there’s a little hamlet called Roncesvalles. Or, if you’re feeling linguistically adventurous, Orreaga—because why say anything in one language when you can say it in two and sound more cultured? This tiny place is the first stop for pilgrims heading into Spain via the Camino Francés. Naturally, confusion is the local pastime here. Nothing says, “Welcome to Spain,” like getting lost before you’ve even unpacked your socks.

But Roncesvalles isn’t just some sleepy backwater where old men whittle sticks while cursing at pigeons. No, this place is dripping with history—like a medieval soap opera. Remember the Battle of Roncesvalles in 778? Of course you don’t. But trust me, it was epic. Charlemagne and his gang got ambushed by the Basques, because apparently, even back then, no one liked tourists.

Fast forward a few centuries, and the Royal Collegiate of Roncesvalles pops up to save pilgrims from their own questionable life choices. The hostel here is basically the heart of all things historical and holy, like if the Vatican had bunk beds. It’s got a Gothic church that’s so old, the gargoyles look like they’ve seen some things. There are also more chapels than anyone could possibly need unless you’re trying to apologize to God for whatever you did last Friday night.

This hostel has had more facelifts than your average Hollywood starlet, all to keep those pilgrims comfy. And they still come—seeking spiritual solace, a decent night’s sleep, and probably a Wi-Fi password. Dinner at the hostel is a real event, where complete strangers bond over blisters and bad decisions, like some sort of medieval speed-dating night. “Hi, I’m Greg, and this is my left foot. It used to have skin on it.”

Walking into the hostel is like stepping into the middle of a chaotic garage sale where everyone’s trying to offload soggy shoes and ponchos. The place smells like a mix of damp wool and poor life choices. But the sense of camaraderie is thick enough to choke on, so you just smile and pretend you’re enjoying it.

After what felt like an eternity in a wet shoe swap meet, our number was called, and we swaggered up to the check-in counter like we were checking into the Ritz. They wanted both passports—the one with all the fun stamps and the boring one from the U.S. government, which I’m pretty sure they just keep to make us feel slightly guilty. Once the paperwork was done, we grabbed our room keys and ascended to the second floor, where the beds were lined up like a penitentiary for enthusiastic hikers.

Let me just say, this is no ordinary hostel. It’s been spruced up real nice, with three floors crammed full of beds. They fill up fast, because nothing says “luxury” like communal sleeping arrangements with 59 of your newest, snoring friends. Everywhere you look, there are towels, ponchos, and garments drying like some kind of bizarre pilgrim laundry festival. It’s all very… quaint.

Navigating the labyrinth of bunk beds, we finally located our sleeping quarters. Next to us were Alejandro from Chile and James from the UK. James was a lawyer, so we bonded over legal lingo until his family mercifully swooped in and rescued him from my riveting discussion about habeas corpus.

The dinner scene was like a culinary Hunger Games, with everyone vying for their plates of pasta and wine, as though they hadn’t eaten in weeks. We chose chicken because I didn’t want Suzy to be staring down a fish like it had wronged her in a past life. By the time we polished off the bottle of wine, the day’s hike was a distant memory.

Back in the dormitory, James regaled us with tales of legal escapades until the hostel’s flickering lights gave us a clear message: bedtime or else. Earplugs in, we embraced the symphony of snoring that could wake the dead, though for $2 a pair, those earplugs were worth their weight in gold.

The Next Morning:

The fantasy of sleeping in until 9:00 was cruelly shattered when the hostel’s lights snapped on at 6:00 AM. Apparently, this place runs on monk time. The monks’ chanting, once a serene lullaby, quickly transformed into a spiritual eviction notice. By 8:00, the volunteers were gently but firmly ushering us out the door, like bouncers at a nightclub for devout early risers.

We packed up our things, breakfasted like it was our last meal, and set off for another day on the trail. As we walked, I couldn’t help but marvel at the absurdity of the 790-kilometer sign to Santiago. Nothing says “fun hike” like realizing you’re still 489 miles away from your destination. Yet, with a strange mix of determination and delirium, we soldiered on.

And so we walked, feet aching, knees protesting, but spirits inexplicably high. Because that’s the magic of the Camino. You might be suffering, but at least you’re doing it with a bunch of strangers who are suffering right along with you.