The Happiness Cafe

The sun was coming up as Molly wiped down the tables by the gate in front of her food truck. The Peregrinos who had stayed the night before in her casa rural would be coming out soon and expecting the breakfast included in the price of their room. Before they hoisted their backpacks, buckling their straps, then waving goodbye. Molly, sporting her long grey braid, would bless them with Buen Camino, as she did all her Pilgrims.

Molly could hardly believe it had been nearly ten years since she opened the business on the Camino de Santiago and more than that since Bess had died. The thought made her look over to the walled garden at the front of their house. And it was still their house. They had bought it together twenty years ago. Their dream. Bess designed the garden, and she and Molly had built every inch of it. Molly smiled up at the lemon tree peeking over the wall. A happy fruit. Bess would have loved picking the lemons from the now mature tree and making limoncello. Or slicing them into sangria on a hot summer day. Molly’s heart constricted whenever she thought about that day, finding Bess lying on the path they had laid together.

The mornings were the hardest. Waking up to an empty bed when the old nightmares had her sitting up in the dark. Sweat soaking one of Bess’s old t-shirts. And Dutch, their elderly Golden Retriever, whining with worry. In reassuring the dog, Molly found comfort in return. She wasn’t alone. ‘It’s OK, girl.’ she’d say, petting Dutch’s soft ears. ‘We’re OK.’ Even though sometimes she wasn’t so sure of it herself.

Molly had opened the business after Bess passed away. She needed the money. And after spending a lonely year waving at the Pilgrims passing the gate on their trek to Santiago, she decided it was time to let some people in. Helping them might keep the loneliness at bay.

Molly started out serving coffee. But the business grew steadily. This stretch of the Camino Frances runs from St. Jean Pied de Port in the French Pyrenes to Santiago de Compostela in Galicia, near the west coast of Spain. Molly’s gate was just three days from Santiago. Her customers, her Peregrinos, had all started their trek somewhere in the last 750 kilometers, and most arrived at The Happiness Café at breakfast time. They wanted her blueberry pancakes with maple syrup. Or the strawberry waffles with whipped cream. A very American breakfast, but Molly was American. She made the foods she knew how to make, and the Pilgrims seemed to like them.

Her first Pilgrim of the day walked through the gate, and Molly smiled. ‘Buenos Dias. Dime.’ Good morning. Tell me what you would like, she said in Spanish.

The man looked worse for wear. ‘Una Cerveza. Por favor.’

Molly tensed. She could tell he wasn’t Spanish, and breakfast beer drinkers weren’t her usual customer. She retrieved the beer from the small refrigerator and, after popping the cap, set it on the counter. ‘Dos euros.’

The man handed over the money. She shook her head. Molly had served tens of thousands just like him. She checked that the waffle makers were getting hot and the griddle was ready to go. Suddenly, there was a sound behind her. Turning, it was the Breakfast Beer Pilgrim standing at the counter.

‘Two more.’ He said, holding up his fingers.

‘Perdon?’ asked Molly, confused.

‘Dos Cervezas.’

The man had chugged the first one. Molly reached down, grabbed two more beers, and set them on the counter. He went back to his table with his bottles. The hair stood up on the back of Molly’s neck. In her experience, people who drink beer like water are not people she wanted to be around.

Dutch whined at the door to the food truck. ‘I’m not happy about it either.’ said Molly.

Molly continued to get ready for the flood of Pilgrims, surely making their way from Palas de Rei. They would be here within the hour. She gathered up her sandwich board and went out to the road.

‘Bienvenido’

‘Welcome’

‘Willkommen’

‘Bienvenue’

No matter what day of the year, Pilgrims came to her café. Sometimes it was just for a café con leche—others for something more, like hot soup on a cold, foggy Galician day. But mostly, it was to talk. Tell someone their stories, because people don’t come from all over the world to walk the Camino de Santiago across the north of Spain if they don’t have a very good reason. And Molly was here, at The Happiness Café, to listen to them.

On the way back to the food truck, she passed the beer drinker. Suddenly, she felt a hand encircling her arm, stopping her in her tracks.

‘Two more beers, por favor.’ Said the man.

Molly tried to extract herself from his grasp while remaining calm. But he held her firm. ‘Disculpe?’ She said.

‘I want two more beers. Muy rapido, señora.’ He said, sneering. ‘You understand ingles?’

Molly realized that the three beers were not the only alcohol this man had drunk for breakfast. His grip on her arm was beginning to hurt.

‘Of course,’ she said, still trying to break his grip. At the same time, looking for some way to put some distance between them. Suddenly, there was a low growl coming from the man’s left. Molly looked down, and old Dutch was baring her teeth. She barked a warning, and the man let go of Molly’s arm. He shot out of his seat and put the chair between himself and the usually docile Golden Retriever. A couple staying the night before walked from the garden with their packs.

‘Everything OK, Molly?’ asked the young Frenchman, frowning, as his girlfriend came over to where Molly was standing rooted to the spot. One woman helping another.

‘Yes. I think everything is OK.’ She said, patting her leg and calling Dutch over to her. ‘This man was just leaving.’

The Breakfast Beer Pilgrim grabbed his pack and made a swift exit as Molly took a deep breath.

‘What can I get you two for breakfast.’ she smiled, hoping she didn’t look too rattled. ‘Shall we start with some coffee?’

It was a busy morning. Opening the house up as casa rural was a lifeline after Bess passed away. Having noise was a comfort. And the village girl who helped most days, Marie Carmen, had become like a daughter to her. But she was heading off to University soon. It would be time to turn yet another page. Molly’s home was closed to Pilgrims today. But her other guests would be arriving at lunchtime and, if she was honest, Molly was a bit nervous about this group.

Europe had become a haven for refugees fleeing war, persecution, and famine. From as close as Ukraine and as far away as Afghanistan. Like the Pilgrims on the Camino walking towards an unknown destination, these people took what they could carry and fled their homes, hoping for safety from bombs and violence. Molly could relate to that. She understood the need to escape violence—more than most people.

It’s no wonder the article in the newspaper caught her eye. Molly wasn’t sure what she could offer when she phoned the contact coordinator at the number listed and was surprised when they called to ask if she could host a family. Temporarily, they told her. Just until they could find other, more permanent accommodations. How hard could it be to host a family for a month or two? She thought. Today, it seemed, she would find out.

‘Buen Camino’ Molly waved as one group gathered their packs when she heard a car and saw Dutch take off towards the gate. She took off her apron and saw a group of people led across the lawn by a stern-looking woman with a plastic folder.

‘Buenos Dias.’ said Molly in greeting.

‘Buenos Dias.’ said the woman with her hair pulled back in a severe bun. ‘Perhaps we will switch to English because this family doesn’t yet know Spanish.’

‘All right.’ Molly said as she looked over at the tanned-skinned man in what looked like pajamas and a long vest and his very pregnant wife with her hair covered in a colorful scarf. There was a boy, maybe 14, and what appeared to be twins: a boy and a girl, roughly 6 or 7.

‘I am Marta, from the refugee agency. We spoke on the phone. You agreed to host a refugee family in your casa rural for one to two months, starting today.’ She seemed to wait for an acknowledgment that this was correct information.

‘Sí. Claro`.’ Molly acknowledged.

Satisfied, the social worker continued. ‘This is the Nassar family. Don Walid Nassar and his wife, Doña Jihan.’ She gestured to them like she was a model on a game show. ‘This is their son, Saleem.’ Checking her papers for reference. ‘He is 14 years old. And their two younger children are 6-year-old twins. Mohammad and Naima.’

Molly smiled at the twins, who boldly smiled back with chocolate brown eyes. Each of them was missing a front tooth. She looked up at the 14-year-old, Saleem, as he was already taller than she. He tried to look tough, but it was clear this situation unnerved him after all they had been through. Dutch nudged his hand, and welcoming the distraction, Saleem bent down to pet her.

Then Molly turned her attention to the parents, Walid and Jihan. The wife fussed with the edges of her coat that would no longer cover her very pregnant belly.

‘Asalam allaekum. It’s nice to meet all of you.’ said Molly. She knew she should not reach out to shake their hands, so she put her hand over her heart to convey her sincerity. ‘You’re most welcome in my home.’ Indicating the house, they could see over the garden wall. ‘Let me put up a sign for my customers. Then I’ll take you through.’

Molly put a sign on the counter. If they didn’t want to wait, there was always the café 300 meters down the road. Then she led the group to the arched garden gate in the white stucco wall. The hinge creaked as metal rubbed metal when she opened it—another reminder she’d forgotten to oil it, again. The twins were at her side, looking through the bars with curiosity.

‘Please go ahead,’ she told them, smiling. ‘Take the happy path to the front.’

'This garden was my wife, Bess, and my pride and joy.' The beds were bursting with new growth. Lavender and bluebells. Bright-colored tulips peeked out indiscriminately. But it was the path that caught the eye—a mosaic of colorful glass tiles and stones in the shapes of fish and flowers. Sparkling smooth glass filling the gaps caught the sun and looked like flowing water. It wound through the walled garden, skirting the edge of blossoms and foliage around two trees that provided shade on sunny days. Olive and lemon trees scented the air with new blooms, each with a bench underneath to rest on a hot day. The only thing missing were the birdhouses Molly always had on her list but never seemed to find the time to erect.

‘It’s such a long way to the front door.’ Naima whined.

‘Yes,’ agreed her brother, Mohammad. ‘You shouldn’t have made it so curvy.’

Their mother said something to them that Molly didn’t quite catch, but she laughed.

‘Don’t you like my path?’ she asked them playfully. ‘I like to take my time going through my garden. And anyway, I find the road to happiness is rarely a straight line.’

The children ran ahead as Molly caught Jihan’s eye and was rewarded with a tentative smile. Unfortunately, Walid didn’t appear to share the same sentiment, as the scowl he arrived with settled even further into his forehead.

Molly introduced them to Marie Carmen, who was cleaning up after the Pilgrims from the night before.

‘Here is the living room. We have a tv. And internet. The Wi-Fi password is on the back of your bedroom door. ‘She indicated by opening the door and showing them the shelves. ‘Over there,’ she indicated to her left, ‘is my room. The only thing I ask of people staying here is that no one goes in there. It’s my private space.’

Molly turned to the right, and she invited them to join her. ‘Here is the kitchen.’

‘There’s food in the fridge and the pantry. Please feel free to cook whatever you like.’ Molly opened the cabinets and showed the family where the dishes, pots, and pans were kept. Please avoid things I have labeled for the café. That’s the only house rule for the kitchen. I go to the grocery store to pick up supplies all the time. You are welcome to come along with me and select what you need.’

Molly saw Jihan nod and, assuming that she would be doing most of the cooking for her family. Perhaps that’s sexist, she thought to herself. But never mind.

‘Let me show you to your rooms upstairs.’ Dutch led the way as the group traipsed up the staircase, with the curious twins as her partners in crime. ‘Here is your room.’ She said to the couple. ‘And over here in the room for the kids. It’s got three beds and a wardrobe that should hold all their things.’

Jihan seemed interested in where her children would sleep as the twins claimed the bunk beds, fighting over who would sleep on the top. Saleem sat down on the twin bed, but the expression on his face gave nothing away.

‘There is a futbol in the closet. I think it was left here by one of the pilgrims. I’m not sure why they would carry a futbol on the Camino, but it’s here. You’re welcome to it.’ Molly told him. If she was hoping for a smile of gratitude, she was disappointed.

‘Well. I’ll let you all get settled. If you’re hungry, please come down to the café. Or you can rummage in the kitchen, as there is plenty of food. We won’t be taking in any Peregrinos today. So, you will not be disturbed.’ Molly gave them what she hoped was a reassuring smile and turned to go. ‘Oh, and I almost forgot. People leave things here all the time. Coats, sweatshirts. Lots of stuff. I keep it in the closet downstairs, just in case someone needs it. It’s all clean. You can look through the box and take what you want if you need something.’ Then she left them with the social worker.

Walking through the garden back to the café, the wind blew the colored bottles hanging from the trees. The tinkling glass made Molly feel a bit better. She was used to people coming and going. But no one had stayed more than one night since Bess died ten years before. Not even her son, Chip, who lived in the US. Having the Nassar family living there for a month would take some getting used to. For all of them.

Molly cleaned the tables and stacked the chairs when she heard the social worker’s car depart. The woman had promised a follow-up email if Molly needed to get in touch.

‘Pardon me.’ Came an unfamiliar voice. Molly turned before she realized it was Walid. ‘What is a ‘Peregrino’?’

Molly realized she had taken too much for granted. The family had no idea what she’d been prattling on about.

‘This road’ Pointing to the gate. ‘is a pilgrim’s route to Santiago de Compostela. People have come to Spain from all over the world to walk the Camino for over a thousand years. Informally, it is known as The Way. Some for religious purposes. Others for the physical challenge. People who are grieving or searching for something that is missing in their lives. They walk to try to find it. I provide shelter for people who are walking The Way. In Spain, they are called Peregrinos.’

‘This must be Christian. In Islam, we have a pilgrimage to Mecca.’ Walid told her.

‘I know about Mecca. But, I have met many Muslims who are also walking the Camino. Buddhists. Atheist. It is not about going to Santiago to get the Compostela for many people. The prize is finding that place inside themselves where they lost their way. I think it is a common human condition. Transcending religion or nationality.’

Walid seemed to give this some thought. ‘So, we are to be living amongst these people while we stay here. These Pere-.’

Molly nodded. ‘Peregrinos. Yes, Don’t worry. They only stay for one night and are on their way to Arzua in the morning. I don’t allow parties, and we lock the door at 9 pm. Most pilgrims like to be on the trail early. And since I serve their breakfast in the café, they have an incentive to get up and leave. But you might find you enjoy talking to them.’ She offered. ‘Everyone has a story to tell, and sometimes they just need someone to listen.’

‘The Happiness Café.,’ said Walid. ‘Unusual. You say it’s not religious, but you have a statue of the Buddha in here.’ He pointed to the large stone cross-legged man in the corner. The stone figure was covered in ribbons, rocks, and Catholic prayer cards.

‘It’s a fair point. People bring me things and leave them at the foot of the statue, and now, it has become a thing. I heard someone once say that kindness was their religion. I liked that. I try to be there for my Peregrinos. To reflect compassion and to listen to them. That’s all they seem to need.’

Walid frowned, then changed the subject. 'Did I hear you say you have a wife?'

'Yes, I do.,' she said. Waiting.

'Hmmm.' As he turned and left.