I awoke early on my last day in Santiago. I had my last cup of Cola-Coa (a brand name for hot chocolate) with the American pilgrims I arrived with and we said our good-byes. The Cathedral bells rang in the distance, the rain came down in a heavy drizzle as I made my way to the Cathedral steps. I wanted a few quiet moments alone before the day’s pilgrims started arriving. Inside I descended down a small flight of steps to the crypt where St. James’ tomb resides. To my surprise a nun came down just after me and unlocked a gate leading to a narrow passageway. She swung open the gate and a few others rushed down the steps and entered. I asked if I could join them, she smiled, grabbed my arm, said something in a foreign language and pulled me in, closing the gate behind her. I was inside a small chapel separated from the main Cathedral by iron gates and plexi-glass. Three priests dressed in red robes were standing facing the altar at the tomb. They celebrated the mass in Polish; tears rolled down my face. No translation was needed.

In the streets outside, pilgrims began arriving; their backpacks were covered with wet-sacks, and ponchos hung over their heads. I can hear the light sound of dappled rain hitting the cobblestone. A line outside the pilgrims’ office had begun to form. Shopkeepers were preparing to open, and cafes started brimming with pilgrims.

Walking the streets of Santiago I bumped into a pilgrim from South Africa. I first met her the morning I left St. Jean Pied de Port, 34 days earlier. I had just begun my journey leaving through the city gates and stopped to adjust my pack. She introduced herself and we walked for a few minutes. She quickly learned I wouldn’t be able to keep up with her and walked on ahead of me. Now, 34 days later, standing in Santiago she told me of her plans to walk to Finisterre (a 4 day journey) we wished each other a Buen Camino and she turned a walked on down ‘The Way’. It struck me as she walked off, that this is exactly how my Camino began.

For the remainder of the day, I thought a lot about the meaning of my journey: how it had begun, how it had ended, and how life seems to repeat itself, mirroring the past, making some sense of the present.

I had spent my last night on the Camino in a room very similar to the one I spent my first night in St Jean Pied de Port. Again, there were two sets of bunks on my right and two sets on my left. There were, once again, two pilgrims from Japan, but this time I got a bottom bunk. Both nights, I couldn’t sleep with the thoughts that I might not finish my journey; that somehow, even now, only 3k from my destination, my victory would be taken from me.

I over slept that last morning on the Camino, just as I had the first morning. Life was holding up a mirror for me. The past was repeating itself, but this time I had been the first one out of the room, and this time I didn’t walk alone.

Something had changed. Me.

Sitting in a restaurant too small to move around in, I’m waiting for my plate of lomo (pork) and patatas (fried potatoes); the sound of crashing dishes and reminiscing pilgrims fill the air. Outside, a military band marches through the streets. The clouds above are straining to part and allow the sun to poke through. I’m unsure of the reason for this parade passing through, but I need not know. Every day in Santiago de Compostela is day filled with excitement and achievement, at least for those entering from the pilgrim route that brought them there. Whether they have walked for three days or thirty they have completed the journey and it is cause for celebration.

 

The Pilgrims’ Mass overflowed with excitement as the botafumeiro swung once again in the rafters of this grand cathedral blessing the pilgrims below. It is an amazing sight no matter how many times you see it. Walking past the pilgrims’ office, I saw Father Michelle waiting for his Compostela and ‘the girl with reservations’. I wished them a Buen Camino.

An email came from England; it was the daughter of the English pilgrims I met. They had my email address, but no access to the internet; she requested I meet them for tea. I accepted. After tea, I met up with a pilgrim from Canada. He needed a gift for his niece. I spent more money in one day than I had in two weeks.

At the train station, some pilgrims approached me and asked about the schedule to Madrid. I’m not sure how it came up, but I somehow mentioned that I was sad I did not see a pilgrim I had met on day two of my journey. We had walked for days together but got separated when I took a rest day. They asked me her name, maybe they knew her. I laughed and gave them her name; they had her contact card in their pocket. My Camino was complete.

I spent my final evening in Spain in an airport hotel in Madrid. The bar gave me a complimentary glass of Champaign. If they only knew what I was celebrating, but I didn’t explain. I knew then that it would be like this once I arrived home, an interior celebration I couldn’t really explain.

“People always arrive at the right moment at the place where someone awaits them…” The Pilgrimage, by Paulo Coehlo.

A year-and-half has gone by since I completed my journey, and I know now that my victory is complete and no one can ever take it from me.

*Walking With Grace Wednesday: The Camino de Santiago, An Epilogue