A siren calls. There must be room at the inn. She is adorable, or she is plump, or she wears white linen—a uniform perhaps—but she beckons, calling us to her albergue. Is this perfection?
Yes, always—in some small or some grand way—always. Washing, always the washing, happy to do the washing. Too, the Pilgrim’s meal, a filling, delightful, satiating repast. Oh, the vino tinto.