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I tried hard to experience the day in its true form-- to let it be what it really was and to honor and accept my individual reaction. I knew from Brierley's book that there was a good chance I might feel disappointed when I got to the Cathedral. I was expecting that feeling. What I was not expecting was the plethora of other emotions.
The day started good. Everyone was up and out of the albergue at Monte del Gozo later than usual. There was no rush with only 4.7 kilometers to go. All just needed to make it to the cathedral in time for the Pilgrims' Mass at noon.
It was raining and foggy when I left. I put on my rain jacket, tied the hood, then covered my backpack with its rain cover. I walked back up the hill to take another look at the Monte del Gozo monument, then walked around a kiosk to get back on the road to Santiago. A scruffy dog belonging to the kiosk vender, came up to me. I pet it while its owner smiled and said some jolly Spanish thing to me.
A serious-looking young male peregrino fiddled with his shoelace to buy the few seconds it took for me to pass, so that he might have his space bubble to walk in. I understood. I do the same thing. This day of of all days I wanted space around me to do the weird things I do when I am thoughtfully absorbing my way: touch pine needles and feathery plants, sniff tree blossoms and eucalyptus leaves, and photograph spiderwebs. But there were not many needles, plants, leaves, or webs to touch, sniff, or photograph; as all had turned to ugly concrete. There was no trace of the Camino other than yellow spray-painted arrows and metal shells embedded in the pavers every so often.
The rain intensified from mist, to drizzle, to pour. Some ahead of me walked with people who were wearing regular clothes and walking like their hips hurt. Maybe they were family members who had joined up for the end? Whomever they were, they clearly were not Trekkers; their waists were too thick. It took two hours for me to reach the cathedral. I stopped occasionally to take pictures of cathedral spires which came in and out of view as I wound through the city. As I entered the old part of Santiago, I passed throngs of Trekkers, who had already arrived, glowing like honeymooners having just consummated their marriages. The sight of them excited me, and I walked on all the more briskly.
Rua da Acibecheria, lined with jewelers selling azabache, opened up to Praza da Inmaculada with carefully pruned hedges and lavender flowers. I teared up as I saw the cathedral's north door to my left. A big group of Trekkers were singing ahead of me, with the crowd joining in. I continued down tunneled stairs, passed a man playing bagpipes, and came out under the arch of the Pazo de Xelmirez into the wide plaza where hundreds and hundreds of people were laughing, hugging, and taking pictures.
I immediately spotted a guy whom I had taken a picture of at the Pilgrims' Office in St. Jean Pied de Port on the first day. He had been as awkward and lonely-looking as I back then. I had seen him another time at the government-run albergue in Burgos and again had thought we shared the same blight. But here he was completely transformed, hugging the close friends whom he had made on The Way. A girl Eskimo-rolled him on the concrete, and they kissed. I walked up to him and tapped his arm. "Is this you?" I asked, showing him the photo I had previously taken of him. "It's me!" he said with an Italian accent. "It's me at the office in St. Jean! One month ago!" His friends laughed with him. He looked closer at me and said, "We were on the train from Bayonne!" I smiled and nodded, then backed out of his limelight.
I was grateful for the safe arrival, but I also was sad and sick of being alone. I got a young guy to take my photo in front of the Cathedral and texted it to Rob and the kids. It was the middle of the night, their time. The girls texted me a couple of sleepy woots, but the guys were sound asleep. And that was that as far as hoopla.
Santiago gives everyone the reception they deserve.
I went into the cathedral. The Tree of Jesse, the central column of Master Mateio's masterpiece Portico de Gloria (Door of Glory) was barricaded and in darkness. I could make out where past pilgrims had worn a handprint in the stone. I took a few pictures and was promptly scolded by a guard for having used my flash. I went around to the other side of the column, hoping to press my forehead against the brow of Master Mateo's stone self-portrait Santos dos Croques to "obtain his wisdom," a tradition of visitors past, but the head-banging saint's genius likewise was off limits.
I did not wander much around the cathedral, visit the apostles crypt, or deposit in the reliquary chapel the written prayer intentions I had carried with me to the cathedral for my friend back home. I would come back to do all of that when I was more composed and not as overwhelmed by the crowds. Instead, I took a seat on a front pew and prayed for a couple hours before the Pilgrim's mass began at noon.
The French psychologist whom I had met in Ligonde had told me exactly where to sit, so that I would best enjoy the swinging of the botofumeiro, the enormous censer that hangs from the ceiling and dispenses thick clouds of incense. I sat in just the spot, but, alas, the botofumeiro was not swung at the service I attended. The service was nice, and the organ music was lovely, but I did not connect there and then with God the way I had at the churches in O'Cebreiro and Tricastela.
I tried hard to experience the day in its true form-- to let it be what it really was and to honor and accept my individual reaction. I knew from Brierley's book that there was a good chance I might feel disappointed when I got to the Cathedral. I was expecting that feeling. What I was not expecting was the plethora of other emotions.
The day started good. Everyone was up and out of the albergue at Monte del Gozo later than usual. There was no rush with only 4.7 kilometers to go. All just needed to make it to the cathedral in time for the Pilgrims' Mass at noon.
It was raining and foggy when I left. I put on my rain jacket, tied the hood, then covered my backpack with its rain cover. I walked back up the hill to take another look at the Monte del Gozo monument, then walked around a kiosk to get back on the road to Santiago. A scruffy dog belonging to the kiosk vender, came up to me. I pet it while its owner smiled and said some jolly Spanish thing to me.
A serious-looking young male peregrino fiddled with his shoelace to buy the few seconds it took for me to pass, so that he might have his space bubble to walk in. I understood. I do the same thing. This day of of all days I wanted space around me to do the weird things I do when I am thoughtfully absorbing my way: touch pine needles and feathery plants, sniff tree blossoms and eucalyptus leaves, and photograph spiderwebs. But there were not many needles, plants, leaves, or webs to touch, sniff, or photograph; as all had turned to ugly concrete. There was no trace of the Camino other than yellow spray-painted arrows and metal shells embedded in the pavers every so often.
The rain intensified from mist, to drizzle, to pour. Some ahead of me walked with people who were wearing regular clothes and walking like their hips hurt. Maybe they were family members who had joined up for the end? Whomever they were, they clearly were not Trekkers; their waists were too thick. It took two hours for me to reach the cathedral. I stopped occasionally to take pictures of cathedral spires which came in and out of view as I wound through the city. As I entered the old part of Santiago, I passed throngs of Trekkers, who had already arrived, glowing like honeymooners having just consummated their marriages. The sight of them excited me, and I walked on all the more briskly.
Rua da Acibecheria, lined with jewelers selling azabache, opened up to Praza da Inmaculada with carefully pruned hedges and lavender flowers. I teared up as I saw the cathedral's north door to my left. A big group of Trekkers were singing ahead of me, with the crowd joining in. I continued down tunneled stairs, passed a man playing bagpipes, and came out under the arch of the Pazo de Xelmirez into the wide plaza where hundreds and hundreds of people were laughing, hugging, and taking pictures.
I immediately spotted a guy whom I had taken a picture of at the Pilgrims' Office in St. Jean Pied de Port on the first day. He had been as awkward and lonely-looking as I back then. I had seen him another time at the government-run albergue in Burgos and again had thought we shared the same blight. But here he was completely transformed, hugging the close friends whom he had made on The Way. A girl Eskimo-rolled him on the concrete, and they kissed. I walked up to him and tapped his arm. "Is this you?" I asked, showing him the photo I had previously taken of him. "It's me!" he said with an Italian accent. "It's me at the office in St. Jean! One month ago!" His friends laughed with him. He looked closer at me and said, "We were on the train from Bayonne!" I smiled and nodded, then backed out of his limelight.
I was grateful for the safe arrival, but I also was sad and sick of being alone. I got a young guy to take my photo in front of the Cathedral and texted it to Rob and the kids. It was the middle of the night, their time. The girls texted me a couple of sleepy woots, but the guys were sound asleep. And that was that as far as hoopla.
Santiago gives everyone the reception they deserve.
I went into the cathedral. The Tree of Jesse, the central column of Master Mateio's masterpiece Portico de Gloria (Door of Glory) was barricaded and in darkness. I could make out where past pilgrims had worn a handprint in the stone. I took a few pictures and was promptly scolded by a guard for having used my flash. I went around to the other side of the column, hoping to press my forehead against the brow of Master Mateo's stone self-portrait Santos dos Croques to "obtain his wisdom," a tradition of visitors past, but the head-banging saint's genius likewise was off limits.
I did not wander much around the cathedral, visit the apostles crypt, or deposit in the reliquary chapel the written prayer intentions I had carried with me to the cathedral for my friend back home. I would come back to do all of that when I was more composed and not as overwhelmed by the crowds. Instead, I took a seat on a front pew and prayed for a couple hours before the Pilgrim's mass began at noon.
The French psychologist whom I had met in Ligonde had told me exactly where to sit, so that I would best enjoy the swinging of the botofumeiro, the enormous censer that hangs from the ceiling and dispenses thick clouds of incense. I sat in just the spot, but, alas, the botofumeiro was not swung at the service I attended. The service was nice, and the organ music was lovely, but I did not connect there and then with God the way I had at the churches in O'Cebreiro and Tricastela.
When I came out of the cathedral, it was raining hard. I was exhausted and drained. A man in a red jacket helped me find my way to the Pilgrims' Office. Sort of. Actually, he walked me all the way to the Tourism Office, which was not where I had needed to go, but I did not tell him that. Eventually, I found my own way to the Pilgrims' Office, where I waited an hour in a line that wound through a courtyard and up the stairs of the Casa do Dean to receive my final stamp and Compostela, the official certificate vouching for my spiritual pilgrimage. I unrolled it, once I was outside, to snap a picture of it to send to the gang, and raindrops smeared the ink.
The rest of the day was really hard. I was no longer on the Camino. My way was not way marked and I got lost. And I got lost. And I got lost. My meal cost eighteen euros, and I had nowhere to sleep, and I was afraid I would not be able to find accommodations. Very quickly, Trekkers did not look like Trekkers. They had replaced their faded activewear with regular clothes, had styled their hair, and instead of rucksacks, carried bags full of new toys. I could no longer just follow someone with a beard and a backpack to find my way. And I could no longer disappear into the ferns and brambles to pee. As the afternoon wore on, I grew despondent and my bladder screamed vulgarities.
And I was mad that all the pilgrims had turned back into everyday mortals just like that. Seeing them in their designer clothes was like seeing Hurley and Kate and Jack in their parallel lives.
And where was I going to sleep? My clothes were all dirty, and even if I found a place, it would be too late for my clothes to line dry, assuming it stopped raining. My feet hurt, and it had become clear, during a conversation I had held with a man sitting next to me at the cathedral, that I would not be able to walk to Finnesterre, a continuation of the journey which I had resolved the day before that I would do. The man had explained to me that I would have to walk thirty-five kilometers a day because there were few albergues. I knew thirty-five kilometers a day would not be something I could do.
Eventually I got a room at Casa do Peregrino, which was very close to the cathedral. The room was fifty euros (I probably would have paid the fifty for a pot to have peed in). The receptionist told me that there was no place to wash my clothes and that the next two days would be festival days, therefore, any laundry facilities and all of the stores would be closed.
When I got upstairs, I fell in a heap on the bed, hoping that my phone would have special texts from my husband, applauding me for having accomplished the journey. No texts, because he had not received the notification of my group texts. When we did swap texts, and he asked me how it felt to have arrived, I did not have the heart to tell him. Instead, I floated around the room for an hour on an ocean of tears.
Santiago gives everyone the reception they deserve.
A while later, I shook myself, realizing I would have to figure out how I was going to survive for the remainder of the trip. As previously mentioned, I had booked and paid for accommodations for the last two days, but I would need to secure someplace for the in-between time. I found online that, for twelve euros, I could reserve a bed in a dormitory for the next day at Seminario Menor. I used my debit card and secured the reservation. I then was able to reserve an individual room at the same seminary for the six following days for a hundred and two euros. I did that likewise using my debit card. After all those weeks of walking and walking and waiting in queues, it now took but a few clicks on an IPhone for Hotels.com to secure my sleeping arrangements for the rest of the trip, and all without dipping into my remaining paper euros. To celebrate, I went to a little restaurant and had a piece of cake and a chupita (tiny cup) of crema do oruja.
By the time I got back to my room, Arrival Day had turned to night, and the streets were full of revelry. A drunk man became unruly, growled, and broke glass; and, at some point, authorities had to deal with him.
The streets silenced by midnight. As I fell to sleep, my mood shifted. I began to realize that my room in the Casa do Peregrino had been a gift, even at fifty euros. It had been my own space in which to decompress and to cry like a brat. I slept well until about 3:00 a.m., when I heard someone leaving. "Stinking night walkers," I woke up saying to myself, only to look at my watch and see that it was 8:15 a.m. and to remember that we were no longer on the Camino; no longer waking early to compete for beds.
About fifteen minutes later, I heard the familiar sound of a stick scratching a cobbled street, and I realized the first peregrino of the day was about to arrive at his dreamed-of destination. Soon more scratching. Then chanting. Then singing:
Tous les matins nous prenons le chemin,
Tous les matins nous allons plus loin,
Jour apres jour la route nous appelle,
C'est la voix de Compostelle.
Every day we take to the road,
Every day we forge ahead,
Day after day, the route calls to us,
It is the voice of Compostella.
I sprang to the window and was delighted to discover that the group elatedly singing as they passed under my window was the troop of teenaged French scouts whom I had met again and again on the road. I was so glad that I had had the privilege of watching them reach their destination.
After showering and packing, I left my room a little before noon. I ordered coffee and a croissant at a nearby cafe. The waiter brought me toast and jam. Thin, white American-looking toast, not a hunk of hard day-old baguette. I was relieved. And disappointed.
I spent the next two hours walking to the Seminario Menor, which was to be my home for the next week. After waiting an hour in line for my bed number and package of disposable sheets, I made up my bed, glad to be back sleeping among pilgrims who still looked like peregrinos.
The rest of the day was really hard. I was no longer on the Camino. My way was not way marked and I got lost. And I got lost. And I got lost. My meal cost eighteen euros, and I had nowhere to sleep, and I was afraid I would not be able to find accommodations. Very quickly, Trekkers did not look like Trekkers. They had replaced their faded activewear with regular clothes, had styled their hair, and instead of rucksacks, carried bags full of new toys. I could no longer just follow someone with a beard and a backpack to find my way. And I could no longer disappear into the ferns and brambles to pee. As the afternoon wore on, I grew despondent and my bladder screamed vulgarities.
And I was mad that all the pilgrims had turned back into everyday mortals just like that. Seeing them in their designer clothes was like seeing Hurley and Kate and Jack in their parallel lives.
And where was I going to sleep? My clothes were all dirty, and even if I found a place, it would be too late for my clothes to line dry, assuming it stopped raining. My feet hurt, and it had become clear, during a conversation I had held with a man sitting next to me at the cathedral, that I would not be able to walk to Finnesterre, a continuation of the journey which I had resolved the day before that I would do. The man had explained to me that I would have to walk thirty-five kilometers a day because there were few albergues. I knew thirty-five kilometers a day would not be something I could do.
Eventually I got a room at Casa do Peregrino, which was very close to the cathedral. The room was fifty euros (I probably would have paid the fifty for a pot to have peed in). The receptionist told me that there was no place to wash my clothes and that the next two days would be festival days, therefore, any laundry facilities and all of the stores would be closed.
When I got upstairs, I fell in a heap on the bed, hoping that my phone would have special texts from my husband, applauding me for having accomplished the journey. No texts, because he had not received the notification of my group texts. When we did swap texts, and he asked me how it felt to have arrived, I did not have the heart to tell him. Instead, I floated around the room for an hour on an ocean of tears.
Santiago gives everyone the reception they deserve.
A while later, I shook myself, realizing I would have to figure out how I was going to survive for the remainder of the trip. As previously mentioned, I had booked and paid for accommodations for the last two days, but I would need to secure someplace for the in-between time. I found online that, for twelve euros, I could reserve a bed in a dormitory for the next day at Seminario Menor. I used my debit card and secured the reservation. I then was able to reserve an individual room at the same seminary for the six following days for a hundred and two euros. I did that likewise using my debit card. After all those weeks of walking and walking and waiting in queues, it now took but a few clicks on an IPhone for Hotels.com to secure my sleeping arrangements for the rest of the trip, and all without dipping into my remaining paper euros. To celebrate, I went to a little restaurant and had a piece of cake and a chupita (tiny cup) of crema do oruja.
By the time I got back to my room, Arrival Day had turned to night, and the streets were full of revelry. A drunk man became unruly, growled, and broke glass; and, at some point, authorities had to deal with him.
The streets silenced by midnight. As I fell to sleep, my mood shifted. I began to realize that my room in the Casa do Peregrino had been a gift, even at fifty euros. It had been my own space in which to decompress and to cry like a brat. I slept well until about 3:00 a.m., when I heard someone leaving. "Stinking night walkers," I woke up saying to myself, only to look at my watch and see that it was 8:15 a.m. and to remember that we were no longer on the Camino; no longer waking early to compete for beds.
About fifteen minutes later, I heard the familiar sound of a stick scratching a cobbled street, and I realized the first peregrino of the day was about to arrive at his dreamed-of destination. Soon more scratching. Then chanting. Then singing:
Tous les matins nous prenons le chemin,
Tous les matins nous allons plus loin,
Jour apres jour la route nous appelle,
C'est la voix de Compostelle.
Every day we take to the road,
Every day we forge ahead,
Day after day, the route calls to us,
It is the voice of Compostella.
I sprang to the window and was delighted to discover that the group elatedly singing as they passed under my window was the troop of teenaged French scouts whom I had met again and again on the road. I was so glad that I had had the privilege of watching them reach their destination.
After showering and packing, I left my room a little before noon. I ordered coffee and a croissant at a nearby cafe. The waiter brought me toast and jam. Thin, white American-looking toast, not a hunk of hard day-old baguette. I was relieved. And disappointed.
I spent the next two hours walking to the Seminario Menor, which was to be my home for the next week. After waiting an hour in line for my bed number and package of disposable sheets, I made up my bed, glad to be back sleeping among pilgrims who still looked like peregrinos.
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