The Arrival

 My final day of the Camino Frances did not begin on an auspicious note.

Cranky and dazed after the mass exodus at 5am by a room full of (understandably?) excited young people, who made very little effort leave quietly, I packed up slowly and headed out the door, making sure it was closed behind me, already looking ahead to my café con leche.

1 step.....2 steps… 3 steps… 4 steps…

Sh*t. 

My STICK.

Leaning right where I left it. 

Right inside the (very locked) front door. 

The thought of tackling that last day without my trusty companion was simply not acceptable.

Waiting around for hours until someone arrived to clean was simply not appealing.

Then I remembered the window in the laundry room… open… and though the window ledge was above my head, there was a lip halfway up that was enough to hold my desperate feet… and I scrambled in.

Relief. This stick would take me to the end of the earth. 

But first it took me to coffee. 

The mood felt solemn as I entered the woods beyond town, pilgrims lost in their thoughts as Santiago grew closer and closer.

Up Mt. Gozo, then a brief descent, and suddenly I was within the city limits, reluctant and eager in equal measure, feeling the importance of the moment.

Santiago is a lovely city, parks and winding streets, and then… there was the old quarter, cathedral towers spiking up above twisting lines of red-roofed whitewash.

Diving in, I followed signs and loaded backpacks deeper into the maze.

And there it was. 

I followed bagpipe sounds through a tunnel and emerged into the main square, squinting against the sun to gaze up at the façade, finding Saint James presiding over the open expanse of cobblestones. 

I spent a few moments gazing, soaking it up… people milled this way and that, or lounged against pillars, or simply laid down in the middle of the square, rested their heads on their packs and enjoyed the moment of arrival.

I decided to circle around and take in the entire thing before entering. As I paused by the horse-head fountain, I saw Irma and Ivan, who I thought I'd lost days ago... but when I realized the time, I bid them farewell and  made my way up the steps and into the cathedral. 

It was 12:05, and I knew the service had started already, but I knew I shouldn’t squander this chance to experience the pilgrim mass, so I dropped my bag by a pillar and ventured inside, drawn by the sea of humanity and the sound of hymns.

The cathedral soared above our heads, colors faded into gray and white; the main aisle was hidden from my view, but I could feel the the vast size of it lurking around the corner.  The mass was in Spanish, of course, so I absorbed little of the actual content, but as the sweat cooled on my back I let my mind wander back to the journey that had taken me here. 

And as the botafumeiro soared along with the music, releasing its sweet smoke, I walked the line between elation and sorrow, glad I had another few days of walking ahead to process it all. 

After spilling back outside on the tide of worshippers, I headed to the Pilgrim Office for my Compostela, proudly stating that yes, indeed, I had walked every step for the last 306 kilometers. 

 After finding my absolutely lovely hotel and cleaning up, I headed back out to wander the twisting streets, and explore the cathedral under less-crowded conditions. 

Taking my turn at the statue of saint James, presiding over the altar, I took a moment to place my hand on the scallop shell glinting just below the nape of his neck, and say a silent "Thank You." Then I headed below to gaze upon his (supposed) remains, enshrined in a shiny silver box. 

Wandering about in the early evening, I was not really surprised that, even here in this relatively large city, I encountered pilgrim friends from the road, enjoying one last chance to connect and share the Camino experience.

The whole day was at the same time both momentous and ordinary.... but sitting in the cooling evening, I felt the overwhelming sense of being a part of something amazing... something so much bigger than myself.

Sarria to Arca - getting close now...

Sarria to Arca

(Days 10-13)

These four days brought rolling hills and increased company, as many pilgrims joined the Way for the last 100 kilometers, the required distance to receive the Compostela, the official certificate of completing the Camino. 

Portomarin is a white-washed town on the banks of a wide and slow-moving river, visable from above long before it is reachable. As I approached, a group of musicians played their not-quite-bagpipes, sending music out across the water, drawing pilgrims across the bridge. 

Groups of young people added their chatter to the stretch from Portomarin to Palas de Rai, and when it started to border on annoying, I would simply drop back and admire the sweeping views - deep green pine forests, rolling fields, stone walls - and let them pass. 

 One group caught my attention with their midwestern accents, and I had the pleasure of meeting a group of young people from a church in Michigan, who planned and financed the trip themselves; they kept me going through a rather boring stretch of road-side walking.

In Palais de Rai, I cleaned up and headed out into the breezy sunshine. A nap in a churchyard, stretched out on the grass, left me feeling relaxed as I wandered down the streets, looking for signs of pilgrim life. I spotted one of the lovely Irish ladies in the main square, and joined her for a few hours of soaking up the sun, filled with the contentment that comes from living the moment you are in, and moving only to amble across the road for a round of cider or to escape the creeping shadows as the afternoon began to wane.  Sharing the sunshine was a group of pilgrims who were meant to be napping, as they planned to set out at dusk, to walk by the light of the full moon and the fires of the festival of Saint Jean. I had a fleeting desire to join them, as I imagined it will be clear and cold and lovely. 

I left Palais de Rai with the sun rising on peaceful lanes and the full moon hanging in the sky. Delivery vans were lined  up outside the bakery, ready to race off along country roads and deliver fresh-baked goodness to hungry farmers, office workers, and pilgrims. 

Eucalyptus trees became more common, adding a dry-leaved rustle to the soundtrack that also included the rippling waters of multiple river crossings. 

The small villages shifted back to red-tile roofs and whitewashed concrete.

Crosses and fountains.

Fields and cows.

One last incline before my lovely alburgue, just over a river where young people are soaking their tired feet.

A nap under flapping laundry. 

Sampling local specialties (pulpo - grilled octopus - and grilled sweet peppers) with some lovely folks at dinner. 

 After Ribadaiso, there were green groves and rustling eucalyptus, a few small rivers, and one village where the path dodged erratically, under arbors and past crumbling walls.

Arca de Pedrouzo isn't all that impressive, but it has the distinction of being only 20 kilometers from Santiago de Compostela.  Here I had the chance to have dinner with a fellow Minnesotan I'd met along the way, a beautiful and brave woman named Anne. She was one of only 3 other pilgrims in the alburgue that were not part of the large group of young people who made sleeping a bit of a challenge that night... and who I partly blame for the fact that I started my final day on the Camino Frances by breaking and entering....