A devoted Camino Volunteer- Kelli Leydecker 🇺🇸

Born in Los Angeles and now calling Napa, California, home, Kelli Leydecker loves a good adventure and believes that laughter is essential to life. She’s always seeking new experiences, staying active, and finding joy in life’s simple moments.

When the world seems to be filled with turmoil and discord, I find myself longing for days on the Camino — simple days filled with beauty, kindness, and mutual respect.

For those who have already walked the Camino de Santiago, you know the lessons you learn out there stay with you. The Camino speaks to you. It tugs at you. Repeatedly. It never truly goes away.

For those who haven’t yet walked but are planning to, consider yourselves warned.

I have walked the Camino from St. Jean Pied de Port, France, to Santiago de Compostela — and on to Muxia — twice. The first time was in 2016, on my own, and again in 2022 with my adult daughter.

In 2019, I walked from Sarria to Santiago with the “I’ll Push You – Accessible Camino” group, assisting ten pilgrims in wheelchairs and one visually impaired pilgrim on their journey. 

Last summer, I walked the final 100 km of the Portuguese route from Vigo to Santiago, again solo. The time between each Camino adventure has grown shorter and shorter. There’s that tug again.

When I walk the Camino, I always carry my own gear and almost always stay in albergues — whether private, municipal, parochial, or donativo. I truly enjoy the albergue experience: the camaraderie, the little bit of chaos, the fun. It’s all part of the Camino magic for me.

This year, I was feeling the need for another scoop of Camino goodness, but I also felt it was time to give back. So rather than walk, I decided to volunteer as a hospitalera at an albergue.

How does that happen, you ask? I’m a member of American Pilgrims on the Camino, an organization that offers hospitalero training several times a year in different locations across the country. I took the training in January 2024 and submitted my application to volunteer during the 2025 season that November. I was assigned to Albergue de Peregrinos San Nicolás de Flüe in Ponferrada, Spain, for the second half of September.

This albergue is a donativo, meaning it operates solely on donations. This type of lodging has long been the heart of the Camino, surviving entirely through the generosity of the pilgrims who stay there. It’s a large albergue — about 160 beds — and they don’t take reservations. There’s a spacious garden partly covered with grapevines, a beautiful chapel, a well-equipped kitchen, and vending machines offering coffee, snacks, soda, and beer for one euro. 

I arrived on the afternoon of September 14, so I could have a full day of training on the 15th before our team was left to our own devices on the 16th. I was greeted with huge smiles and hugs by the outgoing crew of hospitaleros.

Our team consisted of five:

• Me, from the U.S. (I speak a little bit of basic, slow Spanish)
  

• Gretchen, also from the U.S. (no Spanish)
  

• Ricardo, from Argentina (Spanish and a little English)
  

• Paco, from Valencia, Spain (speaks rapidly, with such a thick southern accent I couldn’t understand a word!)
  

• Bernadette, from Brazil (who managed to understand and be understood in Spanish)
  

The outgoing team was all from Spain or South America, but a couple spoke enough English to get us trained. Still, I think we all felt a little panicked that first morning on our own. We were all first-timers — enthusiastic about supporting the Camino and the Pilgrims, but honestly, we had no idea what we’d gotten ourselves into!

We were responsible for opening the albergue by 6:00 a.m. each morning and closing the gates at 10:30 p.m. Long days! Pilgrims had to be up and out by 8:00 a.m. Then came cleaning six large bathrooms (about 16 showers, 24 sinks, 15 toilets, and 8 urinals), two kitchens (one for pilgrims, one for hospitaleros), sweeping and mopping floors, washing and folding about 160 pillowcases (the number of pillowcases rose and fell like the number of pilgrims each day), wiping down every bed, and taking out trash and recycling.

Every day except Sunday, we met with Padre Miguel Ángel, the priest in charge, for “second breakfast” at 10:00 a.m. Afterward, we’d go grocery shopping for our own meals, finish chores, or take a short break. We reopened the albergue at 1:00 p.m. for pilgrims, and the check-ins continued steadily until about 9:00 p.m.

Those first couple of days were a bit chaotic — there were no assigned chores, no schedule, and no plan for who would cook or work the registration desk. But once we organized ourselves, things went smoothly. We divided the 1–9 p.m. registration into shifts, shared laundry and trash duties, and even coordinated our meals. Once we hit our rhythm, the stress level dropped significantly.

We averaged between 45 and 75 pilgrims most days. One day we had about 150, and another day about 110, but those days included large groups of Spanish high school kids.

Pilgrims came from all over the world: Spain, Italy, France, the U.S., Netherlands, Taiwan, South Korea, Hong Kong, the U.K., Israel, Japan, Poland, Denmark, Belgium, Germany, Australia, Portugal, Ireland, Peru, Lithuania, Chile, Norway, Brazil, Colombia, Canada, Mexico, Argentina, Switzerland, China, Russia, Ukraine, Uruguay, Czech Republic, Sweden, Croatia, South Africa, Slovenia, and the Philippines.

One of my favorite parts of the experience was the early morning shift. I volunteered to be the “opener,” since I’m usually awake by 5 or 6 anyway. I’d unlock the gates and chapel, pour myself a coffee, and watch the sleepy pilgrims gather their things to start the day. There was so much gratitude in the air — smiles, laughter, “Thank you!” and “Buen Camino!” echoing through the hall.

One pilgrim asked me if he could leave before 6 a.m. “How early?” I asked. “5:30?” he replied. I agreed. The next morning, as I came downstairs, he grinned and called out, “Let us out! Let us out!” I laughed — there were six eager pilgrims waiting to “blast off” into the dawn.

Another morning, a pilgrim who’d made marshmallow cereal treats for friends gave each of us hospitaleros one as a thank-you. A pilgrim recovering from a twisted ankle brought us a bag of plums to share. These small acts of kindness — between strangers from around the world — filled my heart daily.

The camaraderie among the pilgrims was just as beautiful. They cooked and shared food, sang together in the evenings, enjoyed beers and snacks in the garden, and always helped clean up. So many languages and cultures, yet one shared bond: The Camino.

One day, a young Russian woman and a young Israeli woman checked in together. After handing me their passports, they leaned in and whispered, “Everyone hates us.” I said, “I’m from the U.S. — I understand. But you’re on the Camino now, and out here, we love everyone.”

Another night, we had several Russian and Ukrainian pilgrims at the same time. We quietly placed them in separate dorms — a sad necessity — but we hoped that the Camino’s spirit of peace and kindness would prevail.

The hardest part was communication among our team. My translation app got quite the workout, often producing hilarious results — like translating one recipe ingredient as “chopped mules.” Still, we managed, and over time, we bonded deeply despite the language barriers.

On Sundays, we’d lock up the albergue and head out together for churros and hot chocolate or pastries and coffee. Those little outings became precious — our chance to laugh, relax, and connect as a team.

By September 30, when our replacements arrived for training, I finally understood the exuberant welcome we’d received from the previous team. They were tired and ready to pass the baton!

Our new team arrived with that same mix of excitement and panic we’d felt two weeks earlier. We trained them, wished them well, and left them gathered around the main table, making their own schedule. They’ll be fine.

Volunteering as a hospitalera was amazing, frustrating, exhausting, and profoundly rewarding. I would do it again in a heartbeat.

The Camino always puts me where I need to be — both literally and figuratively.

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