Day nine on the Camino is complete, and Paul and I are sitting in a small albergue  in Cirueña. The town is strangely uninhabited and full of unsold modern apartments. It looks like an Indiana Jones-esque nuclear city. The albergue itself is small and informal; it mainly seems to be this man’s home. As of this moment, we are the only two pilgrims here. From the looks of the guest book, it’s likely to stay that way. We are sitting on an Ikea couch  with eight hours to fill before we sleep, in a town that may not even have a café. Our host doesn’t speak a lick of English and we are soon going to have to converse our way through dinner with him. Until then, we’re stuck reflecting.

Today on the path we were stopped by two American men, mid fifties with graying hair and efficient-looking packs. They asked us if we were a part of the college program walking the Camino. Upon receiving an affirmative answer one looked at us and asked, “So what have you learned so far?” We replied with half hearted answers about language skills and blister care, trying to joke the question  away. The man was insistent. “Seems like you’re just throwing away your parents’ money on this. You have to admit, you’re not coming up with much.” Again, we told some kind of parting joke and kept walking.

A kilometer or so later, the resentment became verbal. Each of us had felt the same indignation at the man’s questioning. Petty though it may seem, I think every Evergreen student has had this same conversation multiple times. While so many call for innovation in education, so few approve of students who take the nontraditional route. This man’s perception, that I am throwing my parents’ money away, is depressingly common. Before I left, I was interrogated by both a doctor and a dentist over how I “talked my parents into Evergreen”. This trip is viewed as a vacation unless I can rattle off a quantitative list of facts I’ve learned. My parents are surely at home weeping and lamenting their deadbeat daughter.

I wish that I had time to collect myself when this man confronted us. I wish I had been prepared to explain to him the things I’ve already learned, the things my parents are paying for. As he was speaking to me my feet were throbbing, I was hungry, and the sun was beating down on my already burned face. Yet I had further to walk and I looked forward without dread or complaint. In that moment and many others, my parents paid for me to learn discipline and perserverance. Earlier that morning I watched 21 Americans load their packs onto a bus, put on cute clothing and full faces of makeup, and I regarded them without judgement or contempt. I advised them about their blisters and wished them well. My parents paid for me to learn that kind of acceptance.

They paid for me to be lost in an enormous foreign city and find my way out with a half-labeled map in a language I don’t speak. They paid for me to regard cultural differences with respect and deference. I have learned to keep my head when stuck in a cramped tienda surrounded by a herd of little old ladies yelling at me in Spanish. I have learned how to walk alone for twenty kilometers and not feel lonely, how to be left behind and not let it crush me. I have learned what my limits are and how to push them. I have learned how to keep going when every fiber of my being wants to stop. I have formed a better relationship with my body. I have learned to take 50,000 steps a day–even when every single one of them hurts.

That is what my parents are paying for. And to the man who stopped me to ask this question: I have also learned that it’s rude to interrogate strangers on the street; have you?