I haven’t quite made this leap yet. I still think of myself as a pilgrim.
Yet pilgrims don’t sleep alone in a private room that cost them 55 euros. They can’t scatter their stuff all over and walk naked from the tub they just luxuriated in to the bed where they will sleep between two cool white sheets.
Pilgrims take showers. They use disposable sheets (yes, those are a thing) and keep their stuff close. They hide their money belt inside their pillow case and put their phone under the pillow as well. They sleep in their clothes or at best underwear.
They are quiet and respectful of other pilgrims, turning out the lights and stopping conversation at 10 pm. They’re up and on the road by 6.
I talked to Fred at 1 in the morning and slept till 8.
I’m no longer a pilgrim.
So as a non-pilgrim I got my laundry done (Now tell me. Does this look like a laundromat?)
and packed my backpack. Since I’m not walking today I packed my boots. That was weird. I’ve never put them in my pack before. Glad I haven’t. Those suckers are heavy.
It’s amazing how much heavier the pack is now. I bought shampoo and a round styling brush, since I had a hair dryer. Those things, plus the small can of shaving cream and some disposable razors, added a lot of weight.
But I’m looking at it like this. I climbed the Pyrenees with two lbs I didn’t need, when I was fatter, weaker, and the terrain much rougher. I only have to carry the pack two days more, really.
Today is on and off a bus. Walk tomorrow and the next day, short walks both, wearing, not carrying, the boots. Bus back to Santiago on Tuesday, fly out Wednesday. Paris then home Thursday.
I saw Elisa again around 11. She and her friend were putting their packs in the storage office. You can’t take mochillas into the cathedral. I put mine in and was about to stand in line when I thought, “What am I doing? I couldn’t see the cathedral last time because there was a mass. I’m about to do the same thing.”
So instead I talked to the tourist desk and got a map. I went to the Mercado, which is where the locals get their groceries. 
I bought a cone of cherries. They were everything cherries should be.
I saw a man refilling his water bottle from this. He was supposed to. This would not happen in the states. 
There was something special going on today, possibly because of St. James’s Day on Thursday.
Now when I came down the tunnel yesterday there was a man playing the bagpipes. I just thought, “Busker, trying to make a living.” This was confirmed when he had been replaced by a woman singing an aria when I left. ( She was GOOD, too.)
Then I read something about Galician music having bagpipes. And then this morning I saw this.
I read somewhere there is a strong Celtic influence in Galicia. I believe it. Lunch was croquettes de bacalao, a salted codfish. The fish had been blended into a cream; they didn’t have the texture of fish sticks. They were GOOD, especially after I got some aioli to go with them.
Before lunch as the parade went by I thought, “I don’t have to just wonder where these people are going. I can follow them.” So I did. Many of them went into a church. So I did too.
I sat in the back and thought, “This could be what this church looked like 200 years ago. I should take a picture.” “No I shouldn’t; this is a service.” “The service hasn’t started.” “Still…” Then I noticed some of the ladies had fans. Sequins and embroidery flashed in the light. That decided me.
I left discretely after. I’ve been through enough services I don’t understand.
Well, it’s 2:40 and I’ve been here almost two hours. I’ve got to go buy some souvenirs, tour the cathedral, get my pack, and find the bus station. And frankly, I’ve had enough bagpipe music.
I’m finishing this post in an expensive restaurant by the sea in Finisterre. Here is my view. 
I toured the cathedral, which is under renovation. Due to be finished in 2021, which is why Fred and I are coming back then. I found the line to embrace the saint.
There is something in the cathedral which pilgrims are no longer allowed to touch, because centuries of fingers have worn holes in the rock. But we can still hug the saint.
I pass some scaffolding 
and begin mounting the worn marble stairs. The wall on my left opens to the bars so frequently in cathedrals. I peer out, trying to orient myself. Where am I? Holy crap, I’m behind the altar!
The sign at the bottom said take no photos, but how I wish I could!
I’m surrounded by gold. The polychrome cherubs holding up the roof I noticed last night (they’re HUGE) are even bigger this close. The saint I am to embrace has his back to me. Mindful of whatever it is that is now too worn to touch, I simply rest my rain-clad forearms on his shoulders and whisper, “Thank you,” although for what I don’t know. I go down the stairs 
(these are marble, remember) and out.
I revisit the crypt 
but something’s wrong. My heart isn’t happy. I respectfully touched when I wanted a full-on hug. 
See it?
So, feeling stupid, I get back in line. I know it’s a statue. I know all I will feel is cold unyielding gold. What am I expecting? The gold to warm? A jolt of electricity? But I have to do this. I take a picture of a stained glass window.
Then I’m up again. The cherubs are just as intimidating, the sheer opulence still breathtaking. I hug the statue, and it feels right. As if a small piece of my heart cracks, but not in a bad way. It’s now 4:00, and the bus for Finisterre leaves at 6.
I shop for souvenirs, but I can’t get the one I want for Mom and Aaron. (Sorry, guys, not telling what it is) because it won’t survive four days in my pack. When I’m done, it’s not quite 5 and I need a toilet. I decide the pilgrim office is the best place, forgetting about the guard outside. He’s busy with a pilgrim, asking if she’s there for the praying. I sneak past and decide that will be MY story.
So I stop at the chapel on the way out. A 20 minute service has just begun. There is singing, simple tunes whose words are on a screen at the front. There is a choral reading, also projected, and time for individual reflection and prayer. But the best part was the Our Father.
The screen, and the service leader, invites each of us to pray the Our Father in our native language. An incoherent babble fills the room. Spanish, English, Italian, Czech, Korean, as many languages as there are pilgrims, mix and blend and rise. And yet it is intelligible too, the poetry having a rhythm completely recognizable.
It is beautiful, powerful, and my heart breaks further. I’m not sure what’s happening. Am I coming apart like a chocolate cherry, my insides oozing out all syrupy and sticky-sweet? Am I opening like a nut or flower, losing my shell forever? Or am I simply molting like a crab, and this soft new shell will harden again, albeit larger? I don’t know. I don’t know which I even want. (Not the chocolate. Blech.)
By the time I retrieve my backpack from the luggage office it is 5:30. The tourist office people and I agree; I need a taxi to make a 6:00 bus. So I get one. I arrive at the station at 5:45. Plenty of time, right?
The guy in front of me is having trouble. It takes till 5:52 to even get to the credit card part of his transaction. Then his card is declined. TWICE. I try the automatic ticket machine, but it won’t acknowledge Finisterre EXISTS.
5:55. Back to the line.
5:57. The ticket machine has run out of tape. Really?
5:58 A couple who couldn’t get the machine to work either ask about Boiro. The agent says something and they take off. She asks me something, clearly “Where do you want to go?” and I say, “Finisterre.” She nods her head after the fleeing couple and I take off after them. I’ve bought my ticket from the bus driver before; maybe I’m supposed to now.
6:05 On the platform is a schedule. The bus to Finisterre is at 6:15, but I have to buy my ticket upstairs. (Keep in mind I’m doing all this with a 17 lb backpack and walking poles.) Back up I go. One window is closed, so I go to another. “Finisterre?” I ask. He gestures to the closed window. “But it’s closed.” He indicates she’s just on a break. “Five minutes.” “But the bus leaves in ten!” I wail. He gives a “not my problem, lady” shrug.
I go to the window and drum my fingers on the counter. “Un momento,” the woman calls.
6:12 I’ve got a ticket! I go wait for the bus. The ride here is uneventful. The hostel has my reservation. And towels! Real honest to God towels! I’m hungry, and I’m on the coast, so I go get seafood. Fish soup, 
positively one of the best things I’ve ever eaten, EVER, and shrimp with garlic.
I get creme caramel for dessert, and it isn’t good. When will I learn the Spanish are hit and miss, and less hit than miss, on dessert? I’m not looking forward to when I have to stop eating like a pilgrim.
Travels and Adventures with Jane 