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.