October 21st, Arriving at Santiago de Compostela (21 kilometers):

               The last morning of my Very Long Walk, I got up and slipped out onto the Camino and into the darkness.  Fittingly, very fittingly, the trail soon plunged me into a eucalyptus forest that blotted out all light and felt for all intents and purposes like plunging into a cave.  My feeble headlamp barely illuminated the immediate area around me and I began to feel uneasy.  The forest stretched in all directions and dampened all sound, and I felt nothing more as if I’d left the Camino and found myself in a dark cave where I was afraid and lonely.

               It hit me then, the proverbial ton of bricks.  I reached up and switched my headlamp off and stood quiet in the darkness for a few minutes, and when I turned my light back on I kept it on the low red light, trusting the path, the arrows of the Camino, the footprints of pilgrims, and God. 

               I’ve read, discussed, taught, and pontificated on the Hero’s Journey for years at work.  It was taught to me by the therapist for whom I worked, and I helped teach it to countless students and staff during my time in the woods.  I’ve read variations, accounts, analyses.  I’ve talked until blue in the face to parents of students about the Hero’s Journey.  But this was the first time I really felt it, and with such a direct metaphor it was almost ridiculous.  A month before, I’d felt pulled to a foreign land, I’d left everything I knew that was comfortable and safe, I’d jumped into a situation I did not know would not destroy me, and I’d been taught lessons that had reshaped me into a new person.  And here I was, walking into the cave, afraid of what I’d find. 

               I had no idea what ending the Camino would be like, how it would affect me.  I had gone searching for meaning in an event, a journey, and I was looking directly down the path at my journey’s end.  The event would finish, and what would I be left with?  Would I return back home changed?  Would my experiences further separate me from the people and places I knew and loved?  Or would I carry the Camino with me in joy and love and return home to thrive and grow? 

               I came out of the eucalyptus and into a field of grass, under a perfectly clear dark sky dripping with stars.  The moment was perfect – both so foreign, so filled with wonder and joy, so connected to the historical pilgrimage of which I’d become a part… and simultaneously so familiar.  As a teenager I often snuck out of my house to lie on my back in a hayfield looking up at the stars, lost in the feeling that if I wished hard enough I’d find myself in a different time, with different people, in a different history.  I think I started to feel the presence of God first in those moments.  It was perfect, singular, and complete.

               This was the last time my Camino held onto the feeling of exploration.  As the sky grew light and the Camino wove more and more into suburbs and the outskirts of Santiago, I could see less grass, fewer views unobstructed by gas station signs and apartments, but I didn’t mind.  The pilgrims had fallen into the final slide toward Santiago and my excitement was growing.  I ran into the Virginia ladies, thankfully, as I don’t remember now if we’d planned to come into Santiago together.  I was so grateful for the company, for companions, and their giddy energy infected me as we bounced along the path.  We co-opted a Taylor Swift song for our own ends, “We are going going going, to Santiago!”  I was clown-like with joy. 

               We stopped at a café just on the edges of the ‘souvenir’ bubble: there were stands selling all manner of Santiago and pilgrimage-themed kitsch outside and I realized I’d soon have to buy my family gifts even though I had no idea how to fit anything more into my backpack.  Breakfast was massive, and delicious, and the coffee served by the barista was American-sized, which meant twice as large as the normal Spanish cups.  I didn’t complain, even when she asked us if we were hiking the pilgrimage because we’d seen ‘The Way’ with Martin Sheen.  Ridiculous!  We were hardened pilgrims, veterans of nearly 500 miles of Northern Spain, compatriots of 1000 years of pilgrims.  But we laughed, and walked on.  Soon after we passed Angela and Martina having their own breakfast, and I took a snapshot that remains one the ‘iconic’ images in my head of life on the Way: two pilgrims, strong, taking breakfast on a stone wall, focused, flush with the walk.  I wanted to grab their hands and kiss them on the face out of exuberance and camaraderie.

               We passed Monte de Gozo, the Hill of Joy, atop the final hill prior to the plunge downward into Santiago de Compostela.  We stared at a giant abstract sculpture there, surrounded by tourists shuffling off their buses, and peered through the fog to the spires of the Cathedral de Santiago several kilometers away.

            We made our way into the city proper where I tossed my hiking poles into the first available garbage bin.  We passed sculpture upon sculpture signifying the Camino’s history, including a massive tribute to famous historical pilgrims replete with almost life-sized reliefs.  We debated checking out the hostels along the way and I didn’t put much effort into the process because I trusted that things would work out no matter what happened.  We found ourselves winding deeper and deeper into tight, compacted streets as the Camino left the modern sidewalks of the city outskirts and threaded into the comforting stone of the oldest part of Santiago.  The girls talked about running into the square holding hands when we finally reached the cathedral and I told myself I’d walk with dignity and grace and let the moment sink in. 

              And finally, like the sharp intake of breath, we came within sight of the square and I found my hand intertwining with Katie’s and all four of us galloped into the bright, open sunlight of the cathedral square, laughing and crying and gasping for air.  Santiago de Compostela, the cathedral, the shrine, the end.  I was within walking distance of the tomb of James the Apostle who had walked with Christ.  I was stopped in my tracks staring at the cathedral whose spires reached higher than I could comprehend, amid a massive stone square flanked by equally gorgeous buildings and full of other pilgrims buzzing with joyful energy.  I was there, and all I could do was smile, and fumble for my camera, and try to hold back tears.  There aren’t words. 

               And of course, inevitably, perfectly, I hear a shout across the square – “BLACKBERRY!!”  I’ll let the pictures say the rest.

October 20th, Arzua to Arca de Pino (23 kilometers):

            The next-to-last day.  I don’t want to finish this story now, and I certainly didn’t then, as I set out from Arzua headed to a town called Arca de Pino which I knew to be little more than a roadside stop in the home stretch to Santiago.  The guidebook suggested pushing through to the giant municipal albergue just above Santiago de Compostela so as to reach the cathedral early on arrival day, but I considered the options and made my choice:  I’d slow down by half a day to enjoy one last night of proper pilgrim life before plunging into the final moments, I’d stay a few days longer in Santiago instead of pushing to get to Muxia and Finisterre, and I’d arrive on a Monday instead of pushing for the larger Sunday pilgrim’s mass.  A quieter arrival, a slower arrival, was more my style.

               Susannah of the Musketeers had surprised me with an email saying she’d be there to meet me in Santiago, and I had powerful emotions about our upcoming reunion.  Make no mistake, I’d have both given up and had less joyful experience on the Camino without my early companions.  The Musketeers were integral to my life on pilgrimage, and I felt closest to Susannah in many ways.  At the same time, I’d had to use the time after we went our separate ways to dive deeper into the spiritual experience, and I was nervous that when I saw her again, it wouldn’t feel like the same magic.  I was so eager to see her again, but I couldn’t shake that worry that I’d be different in a way that would harm our friendship.

               The hike between the two towns was pleasant, but unremarkable.  It felt like such a streamlining of the best parts of the Camino – I was strong, had my trail legs strongly beneath me, and the parts of the day that stood out were the way in which all the familiar, smiling faces clustered at the bars and cafes along the way, giddy with the prospect of finishing but with a certain sadness.  I could pick up the first conversations of people’s plans for after Santiago, of return trips home and further journeys, of logistics of flights and trains, the shadow of a Camino-less world looming.  I had a moment with Joe from Korea at a roadside café, sharing a table and sipping coffee yet again, as we tried and failed to communicate the complicated feelings around being ‘almost done’.  I wanted to hug him, to take his hand and tell him that I loved him for his cigarettes and smile and bright hiking shoes.  I wanted to somehow tell him that sharing this experience changed my life; I had to settle for a nod, a smile, and a slap on the back. 

               On the trail I fell deep into my rosary for most of the day, praying for my family and trying to wrap my heart around the immense gratitude I felt.  I couldn’t help thinking about what it would be like to return home to my job and my family; I couldn’t know then that within a few months of coming home I’d leave my job for one even more difficult and rewarding, that my father and I would become estranged partly due to the changes I experience in Spain, that I’d go through the darkest part of my adulthood and come through alive and happy. 

               I passed the 25 kilometer mark and entered into strange sections of forest with ferns along the trail and giant flat-leafed trees – it was there that I caught up to Katie from Virginia and we walked the rest of the day together.  I could tell it was her from her giant floppy hat and loose-limbed walk, and it was just the right moment to drag me out of my maudlin thoughts and back into the present. 

               When we came to Arca de Pino, we completely missed it and kept walking into a eucalyptus forest for half an hour before doubling back.  Apparently the town was off to the left of the Camino along a two-lane road; it did not look promising at all as we’d blown right past assuming the road was nothing more than access to a gas station.  On arrival the town wasn’t much more than I expected – maybe a mile of buildings along the road, several albergues under bright signs, a handful of shops selling pilgrim postcards and shells, and a municipal building at the end.  Katie and I walked to the end of the road to investigate a hostel she’d seen in the guidebook but ended up turning back as it didn’t look impressive or inviting from the street. 

               On a whim we looked into a hostel with a glass door advertising rooms for 10 euros.  I can’t find the name of it in my journal, but from that first moment on I called it The Finest Albergue of All Time.  There was a wide open foyer and a friendly man behind the desk who ushered us in and showed us the hostel, which had massive showers, a rooftop patio, wooden bunk beds surrounding a garden that stretched to the roof, and calming classical music on the embedded speakers.  We were inviteded to choose our own bunks!  Katie and I chose the ones nearest the garden.  I took the top, number 23, since my friend Katie had such a problem using ladders effectively.  It really would have been a shame for her to break an ankle less than 20 kilometers from Santiago. 

               After the obligatory shower I wandered up to the roof and drank a cup of coffee alone, finishing Housekeeping and enjoying the sunlight and blue skies.  I wandered out along the streets and spent some time getting postcards from a very friendly old woman who seemed to share my enthusiasm that Santiago was close.  I got snacks for the next day, conscious that it would be the last time I needed to buy provisions for the trail.  By the time I got back to the hostel, miraculously, there were more familiar faces than I could have hoped for: Gabrielle, Melissa and Mandie, the Vermonters, the young Aussies, Joe, Danielle and Jean-Louis, Martina and Angela from Germany. Lotus was just up the road from us.

The Last Supper:

               

             It really was inevitable: for the last meal before Santiago, instead of dining on authentic Spanish food, passing tapas round the table, nursing a fine red wine… I ate an entire pizza at a bar and got drunk on beer.  Myself, the Virginia gals, Lotus, the Germans, the Vermonters, the obnoxious Aussie couple from the laundry, two men named Darcy and Daniel, all ended up at a place in Arca advertising pizza and beer.  It seemed a fitting bookend to so many pilgrim menus, and we pulled tables together, harassed the waiter to no end, and laughed with each other until nearly closing time.  I used my paltry Spanish to attempt to order dark beer and ended up confusing the bartender to no end until I fumbled something to the tune of ‘Aleman stilo’ and he handed me a Mahou Negro.  There was an epic misunderstanding when Angela ordered a German dessert drink called a 43 y Leche.  In Germany it is apparently an appropriately-sized mixed drink of milk and a brown liquor over ice.  In Spain, it comes quart-sized and looks like this: 

               Dinner was perfect: excessive, giddy, and joyful.  I don’t know that I will ever have a better image in my mind of companionship, of such easy love for the people around me.  I ate too much, I drank too much, and I probably laughed too hard or told terrible jokes, but goddamn, I was happy.