Llegar

Our final day started with rain.

For the first two hours, it was a steady, soaking, relentless rain; washing pilgrims, washing clothes, washing sins.

Through the gray and mud and streams we walked in a silent but resolute manner. No one talked of stopping or of rest, very little was said at all. I had walked for twelve days and covered a distance of 300 kilometers and the thought of pausing was an impossible one: this was the day. Twenty kilometers to Santiago de Compostela.

We passed an airport and could not help but be startled by such noise. Since I had not heard something so loud and so fierce in almost two weeks, it was my first jarring reminder the end of this journey was rapidly closing on us. For my friends who started much, much further away, there seemed to be a mixture of wonder and apprehension. Nearly 800 kilometers stretches from the beginning of the Camino Frances to Santiago. Miles upon miles passing over rugged mountain paths, vineyards, fields, villages, streams, dirt, the dust of pilgrims centuries before: to imagine an end was nearly impossible after over 30 days of walking.

After ten kilometers we finally rested at a cafe, drenched thoroughly. Socks needed to be changed, packs examined for leaks or dampness, and credentials safeguarded and stamped to ensure approval and validation of our journey, as if it were truly needed. I understand now the significance of the final stamp at the end of the journey, especially to those who have traveled so long, yet I also don’t believe I would mourn the loss of it, should something of the sort happen. A piece of paper is nice, but I will remember the Camino much longer than the document accompanying it will likely last. In the morning though, all I could think of was whether I had felt so completely and utterly drenched in my life. Playing saturday morning soccer games in the Pacific Northwest as a kid came to mind.

Just when I had mentally prepared for an entire day of rain, however, the sun arrived. The sun came, and I slowly dried as Santiago approached in the distance. It is difficult to describe the emotion of arriving at a place you have never seen yet really, really wanted to find. The feeling was familiar–at the end of every walking day, any town is a welcome sight–but I felt a new sense of calm as we entered the city streets. We made it. Some grins were exchanged, but it was a muted celebration. The group I was with had traveled together for so long and all we really wanted to do was eat. So we stopped at a kebab place and ate perhaps the most fulfilling kebab of our lives. Was it any good? No idea. Simply eating was enough.

As for the church itself? The long awaited moment where we had reached out goal? Predictably underwhelming, for most: half of the front of the cathedral was under construction, the other half looked old and dirty and had plants and weeds sprouting from underneath statues of sitting pilgrims and saints. Personally, I thought the aesthetic properly fit the personality of the Camino itself, though I think some were expecting it to be a bit more grandiose. Still, everyone was happy and thankful. It is an accomplishment I am proud of, even if I am still slightly bewildered as to what I will do with myself for the next month now that I have finished walking.

And man, was it ever a walk.