As an American travelling the world I tend to despise the thought of consuming American fast food. At this very moment, I’m sitting in a small Spanish cafe eating a small Spanish tortilla (sort of a thick omelette with eggs, potatoes, ham, peppers). Such feelings of hatred can, however, be erased when weeks of walking are mixed with little diversity in diet. Too. many. sandwiches. (the cheapest option). So, naturally, as Collin and I walked into yet another town and were greeted by the familiar bubble-letter logo of a Burger King, our prejudices vanished as dreams of grease boiled to life in our minds.
Of course, it couldn’t be so easy. It was siesta, as it always seems to be by the time hungry hangry pilgrims roll in to town. We checked the hours sign, a piece of paper hung on the door, resting behind the closed mesh floor-to-ceiling shutters, and learned we only had half an hour to wait. Worth it. We rested on a park bench where people passed, gawking at our battered blistered feet and sweat caked hair.
As this is my second consecutive post about food, it may seem I’m overstating the drama of dreaming of ingestible items. This is hardly the case. The imaginations of hungry hikers are prone to prolonged and intense flashbacks of tasty treats and savory suppers. On that park bench, in the heat of the shining sun, Collin and I were experiencing the grimiest greasiest dreams imaginable. Dreams of the fast food burger, American no less, an elusive entity in Spain.
We heard the clattering sound of the metal shutters rolling up into their coiled upright position, exposing the glass door of the Burger King. It was only ten minutes past their advertised re-opening time, a respectable feat. Like fanboys, Collin and I immediately entered at the opening of gates to the surprise of the sleepy workers. They didn’t seem used to either such enthuthiasm or business.
We looked over the menu. Cheeseburgers, bacon cheeseburgers, double bacon cheeseburgers, triple bacon cheeseburgers, Whoppers! It was classic Burger King.
After we allowed the crazed firing of excited neurons to settle at the sights of such delicacies, we approached the counter, stomachs growling.
“Puerdo una bacon hamberguessa, por favor,” I asked, salivating with every syllable.
The young employee looked at me blankly and told me in Spanish, “We don’t have burgers. No beef. We only have chicken.”
On the Camino, the average pilgrim will experience a variety of shocking encounters. The sudden unexpected change of weather, the reunion of friends you never expected to see again, the pure kindness of hospitalarios and fellow pilgrims, along with other trail magic. But no shock has ever been more truly shocking than the feeling of waiting, thinking of, dreaming of burgers at Burger King only to learn that Burger King can’t take your money and sell you a burger.
I tried to close the gaping hole of my mouth and lower my risen eyebrows and wide eyes. I scanned the menu again, struggling to find something that didn’t consist of burgers and burger meat. I ordered a chicken sandwich.
Later that night Collin and I told the story to a class friend, August. Laughing at the bizarre burger experience, or lack thereof of, he suggested that the fast food joint should change their name to Chicken Prince. Well, although Chicken Prince supplied a tasty chicken sandwich, I think I’ll stick to the Spanish tortillas.