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.
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