Rainy: Not every day is sunny and bright, but that’s why they invented ponchos!
The next two nights of our journey we had some of the best hospitality of the entire trip. In the small farm town of Barbadelo we went to dinner at the only restaurant in town and had the best-tasting food we had eaten since before taking our first Camino step. Up until this point we had been surviving on pasta, rice, tomato sauce, the mid-day bocadillo (sandwich) and the periodic chocolate bar (for the energy, of course). The caldo gallego, a typical Galician soup, sat well in our stomachs, but the ambience of tired pilgrims filling their bellies and chatting with the restaurant owners in Portuguese, Spanish, English, and French made the experience the Camino’s own.
At the end of our meal we wrote a few words in a scrapbook they had with comments in almost every language from the pilgrims who had passed through the town. Books like these were usually in each of the albergues and, if not, fellow pilgrims wrote their messages on bunk bed slats, stone kilometer markers, on rocks with paint, on bulletin boards, or even in the dirt on the trail. One of my personal favorites, and I think one that any pilgrim could relate to, was one that was written just above my head on a bunk bed in Triacastelo: “¡Mis pies est´n llenos de ampollas!” (My feet are full of blisters!).
The next night at the albergue in Eirexe there was more of the same great hospitality as we had received in Barbadelos. We arrived late, and completely soaked after covering nearly 35km in the pouring rain. I had reached that point in the day when everything just has a sort of dull ache and didn’t even realize I was walking anymore. That’s when I asked a blue-jumpered farmer pushing a wheelbarrow how much farther it was to the next albergue. I felt like I could only push my legs out in front of me in that marching motion for so much longer.
The albergue hostess in Eirexe was plump and all smiles. She helped us get settled and hang our wet clothes in the living room in front of the burning fire, chatting with us and periodically letting loose a soft, pleasant giggle. Everyone gathered like a makeshift family in the room around the fire, dressing their wounds, hanging their rain-soaked clothes, communicating as best they could their experiences and taking in the day’s accomplishment.
This may have been one of the best albergues we stayed in during the entire Camino, but each had its own charm. For the amount of comfort that the albergues provide, and the amount of work the hosts put in, it’s amazing that it’s possible to stay each night for free. The only complaint I ever had about the dorm-style sleeping were the inevitable snoring wars.
Days 10-12: Eirexe to Santiago
The next couple of days we could tell we were closing in on Santiago, as the farmland separating each small town grew smaller and smaller and the number of pilgrims grew exponentially. The sun had finally burst through the clouds by the time we reached the town of Melide, famous all over Galicia for it’s flavorful octopus. Grateful for the shining rays, we claimed our beds at the albergue and stretched ourselves out on some benches in the cathedral plaza. We must have looked like bums, but it had poured for so many days that it felt amazing to let the sun permeate our rain-soaked moods.
That night we hooked up with some other pilgrims who were headed to dinner at a local pulperia, a restaurant specializing in the typical Galician octopus. The place reminded me of a bingo hall: the room was long and slender, divided horizontally by long wooden tables and benches. Off to the right was a make-shift bar and kitchen, scattered with bottles and dishes. Our waitress, the only one in the place, shuffled unhurriedly across the cement floor. She looked about that age where she’d have a hard time remembering just exactly what you ordered to drink if it wasn’t the barrel wine. It was one of those places I know I would have never gone in myself, unless someone had drug me there. But after tasting the pulpo that they fired up on the roaring wood-burning stove, I understood why none of the formalities were needed. Granted, it could have been the insane hunger brought on by walking so many kilometers, but the meal was perfect all the way up to giddy conversation and the sweet wine that helped to wash it all down.
Peregrino: The peregrino (pilgrim), symbol of the Camino de Santiago, backed by the Galician countryside as seen from O’Cebreiro.
With only two days left before our planned arrival in Santiago, Beth and I began to become a bit nostalgic about the entire experience. We took longer lunch breaks, slower and smaller steps and chatted with the other pilgrims who were going our way. A friendly doctor from Brazil, who had brought her daughter along to do the Camino for the second time, kept us entertained the last few evenings of our journey. Her big raspy voice burst sing-songily out of her petite body in such a way that you couldn’t help but laugh as she rattled off stories in a mixture of Spanish, English and Portuguese.
On one of the hottest days, I chatted with a German art therapist, whose giant bamboo walking stick and T-shirt wrapped on his head made him look like some sort of guru. Keeping up with his long, graceful strides was almost meditative.
Our last night before making the descent into Santiago, the atmosphere took a complete turn. Where normally the pilgrims were tediously massaging their feet, preparing for the next day’s hike, they were spread out on their towels in the sun, trying to catch a tan and joking with their fellow hikers about the pains. Some were picking up ice cream and bottles of wine at the market next door to celebrate their last night on the Camino. Emotions were high. After all, there were only 20-some kilometers left until they could take that last step into the Cathedral of Saint James in Santiago. We spent our own night drinking wine and playing cards, winding down for our final day.
As we were heading to the bunks for the night (once again, still daylight), some pilgrims were just heading out of the albergue, eager to make it to Santiago even if it meant walking into the wee hours of the night. For them, Arca was just a quick pit-stop.
We didn’t make it out of Arca until early the next morning. We had intentions of making it to mass at noon in Saint James’ Cathedral, upon the recommendation of our Brazilian friend that we attend the day we arrived so that we could experience the sensation of being a real pilgrim arriving with “sudores y dolores,” (sweats and pains). We figured we would make it with plenty of time to spare, no problem. Little did we know that we’d end up sprinting our way through the town with our backpacks and glancing nervously at our watches in order to slide into the Cathedral just at the stroke of noon. We planted ourselves on some steps inside the crowded cathedral and plopped our packs down at our feet. I was definitely experiencing the “sudores y dolores” of the true pilgrim. My feet had gotten four new blisters just that day, and a shower seemed a foreign phenomena at that point.
Halfway through the service the congregation began to sing, and I felt tears well up in my eyes. It was all over. No more days of “just walking” on that to-do list. I looked around me and saw the faces of those former strangers who had shared the experience with me: the Brazilian mother and daughter, the German art therapist, the chipper Italian. Everyone was sitting quietly, wearing sort of the same solemn expression. We had all worked so hard to arrive, and now that it was over, weren’t sure exactly what to do with ourselves. Emotions collided in our trail-weary souls. The last couple of weeks had been filled with such simple pleasures – good meals, good wine, new friends – and our arrival in Santiago was the symbolic end to that tranquility and simplicity.
As the congregation lined up to take communion, I pulled my last chocolate bar out of my camino-worn pack. The taste was soothing and took my mind off my aching feet for a moment. I closed my eyes and let the sweetness melt over my tongue. Never again would a simple bar of chocolate be so purely satisfying.
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