I got up early Monday because I thought I would prefer spending the day in Santiago as opposed to Muxia. The only thing I forgot to do there was visit the holy rocks, and I might have inadvertently done it and not known.

Bev messaged me last night; she is still in Santiago. I saw Chris when we got off the bus this morning. I will hopefully see Bjorn and Julia when they walk in tomorrow. I am excited.

I’ve been recharging my phone in the hotel but I can’t check in till 3. I can leave my pack though, and I think I will. I took apart my poles and they are in the pack.

My poles haven’t been apart in almost two months. The walking really is over. Ryan tells me I’m going to need at least three days to adjust. I’m sure he’s right.

But it might be longer. I haven’t lived in the Middle East for over ten years, yet I still sometimes look at a shopping mall and think, “Why? Why do we need all this?” I think the Camino will have a similar effect. I’ve lived with only what I could carry on my back for almost two months.

But I am not sure I will ever again underestimate the value of a bathtub you can fill with hot water and a soft fluffy towel.

I know I am a different person. Stronger. Tougher. And yet kinder. Gentler. I think I might really be a turtle.

Self-contained, not needing a home because I carry my house with me. Having a hard tough shell but sweetness within. Deceptively slow-moving on land, but put me in my element and watch me go!

Yep, I’m a turtle. Juanita Tortugita. Dalilah said she could call me “Latita,” which means “aunt.” So then I would be “Latita Juanita Tortugita.”

Nah, too much of a tongue-twister. I actually prefer, “Juanita Tres Colores” because I am about three different colors right now.

While sitting in the hotel I got interviewed! Nothing official; a Spanish teacher working on an article told me one of the three things she wanted to do in Santiago was talk to a pilgrim. But apparently I’m going to be in the article. Wow.

I met Enrique in the square; he is going to his family today. The square is chaos, pilgrims, protesters, and tourists of all kinds. They will close the square at 8 for the fireworks that begin at 10:30. I had lunch with Bev and Nora, whom I had met before. They split nachos we agreed we did NOT want the square. My hotel is very close (my mommy did GOOD) but it doesn’t have a terrace and watching from my room isn’t an option. We went to an Asian fusion restaurant that was AMAZING! We watched the fireworks from their garden. The waitress warned us the cinders sometimes fell in the garden but none did.

It was breathtaking. And not just because we had finished two bottles of white and were working on a red.

Now it’s Tuesday and I am sitting on a wall waiting for Julia to walk in. I could have had a free breakfast at the hotel (possibly still can, when is checkout time?) but friends are more important.

I met Julia for breakfast; she is with a lovely group of fellow Germans. She may once again share a taxi to the airport. She isn’t leaving, but has some questions about her backpack as a carry-on.

Now I am in a plaza sipping tinto verrano and waiting for Bjorn. The only conejito I won’t see is Dalilah. She and Davide are positively dawdling and will arrive on the 27th. Still, my heart is happy.

When I met Bjorn he was with some traveling companions. Here’s one.

The Guy’s trail name was “Cat Man.” I don’t know how he managed. Camping, probably.

I woke up before 6 (not much before) so I took the phone out into the lobby where I thought I wouldn’t bother anybody and called Fred. I would have put on my shoes and gone outside but they had disappeared from the hall where I left them. (Everyone’s had.) Apparently I did bother some people because after an hour I got a request to be quiet.

As Eires had the breakfast I’ve been looking for. Toast with tomato and oil. But no garlic. 😞 Last night Isabel and I discussed how she sleeps till she wakes up and I would probably leave without her. So I did. Here is the first picture of the day.It took me almost five hours to walk to Muxia. This is a cross in Morquintian.And this is what it sees. Part of the trail goes through a forest where they are logging.The white is a drift of cloud in between the hills.Here was my first glimpse of the sea by Muxia.

As I walked there was a sign “Carretera cortado….por obos.” I wondered if the road was under construction and decided if it was it would say, “cerrado.” So I kept on. I was wrong. But s pilgrim on foot can do things a car can’t. I got around and once again found there was an easier way I missed, since I saw pilgrims taking it.

But I kept on and now I am here. Muxia. My last destination.I haven’t found my albergue yet, but I found the bar the bus will leave from at 6:45 in the am. I think I’m going to buy something for breakfast I can eat on the bus, and tomorrow climb the mountain to watch the sunrise. The WiFi in the bar Le Jardin is very good. I may end the day here.

It took over an hour of wandering to find my albergue. I even asked for directions. I finally turned on my data (for $10) so I could use google maps. When I was checked in, I went exploring.What I like about this picture is the juxtaposition of ancient and modern. In 300 years, where will the ruin be?

Now I’m back at De Jardin, sipping tinto verrano and using their fabulous WiFi. But I’m about to go take off my shoes, walk in the sand, clean up, do laundry, and go watch the sunset.

it was beautiful. A beautiful end to a beautiful Camiño. And Bev wants to get together tomorrow, and Bjorn and Julia should be walking in around 2 on Wednesday. Life is good.

I am moving very slowly this morning. I slept till 7:15, ate breakfast, readied my pack, and now I’m waiting for my body to decide it’s ready to poop. I HATE pooping on the trail.

Yesterday, as the bus rolled down the highway, I could see out my window and also a reflection of the other side. It was interesting to see transparent, ghostlike images appear and disappear. One of them was a guy in a pink shirt, standing by his car, clearly taking a whiz by the highway. Apparently my inhibitions are not shared.

it’s noon and I’m still in Finisterre. I had to walk to the lighthouse and the zero kilometers marker. It is traditional to burn an item from your pilgrimage, although it is forbidden now. Clearly some people still do.I’m regretting my expensive dinner. I should have grabbed a bocadillo and had a sunset picnic. Still, the views in the morning light are fabulous.

I’m hoping the one albergue between here and Muxia will have a room. I am not physically capable of walking another 30k at this point.

I didn’t leave Finisterre till almost 1. I kept asking directions and finally got on the road to Muxia. Other than having to use the nature toilet THREE TIMES, I traveled basically without incident. But walking in the heat is hard, even for a Texan. Here are some pictures.

There ate far fewer bars on the road to Muxia. I was desperate.

When I came into Lires it was about 6:00. I wasn’t sure I was there, but I met a Getman woman with a map. Together we found the albergue.

It was full. They only had two rooms left for 65 euros. The hospitalalero called another place, but they only had one room with a double bed. So we each paid 32.50. When we were ensconced in our room I said, “Oh, by the way, my name’s Jane.”

She laughed and introduced herself as Isabel. We agreed this was the Camino way. Isabel is also a teacher and an assistant principal. We talked shop and I got some great ideas from her.

This is the sunset from our room.

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 ate lunch to 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.

7:30 am

No, I haven’t reached it. I’m planning a step by step post today. Right now I’m sitting in the albergue, late as usual. The sky is grey and the air cool. Excitement and a little trepidation are playing chase in my stomach.

Now. The time is now. The steps I take now are the culmination of over a month’s work. I’m going to shoulder my pack for the last time (in the morning at least.) I’m going to pick up my sticks for the last time.

I’m a little annoyed because last night I did three blog entries and totally forgot about laundry. When I remembered I thought, “Tomorrow I’m wearing my Santiago clothes. It can wait.” I forgot I only have two pairs of good socks and I’ve worn both. So I had to put an already worn pair on.

Today I’m stepping out to tackle the final road to Santiago. In dirty socks.

8:30 am

I’ve stopped for breakfast. Toast and cafe con leche and a glass of orange juice. I paid a ridiculous price for it (over seven euros!) but I need fuel. I’ve passed.a group of pilgrims praying the rosary as they walked. At least I think that was it.

Today is gray and overcast, just like the day I started. It’s trying to spit rain, and I need to decide if I cover myself or my pack.

Today feels different. The pilgrims seem like they are being pulled in a single direction, like filings by a magnet. It is like that, straggling disordered lines all irresistibly drawn to a single place.

All throughout my walk I’ve been working on my symposium presentation. I think I might have the end. More later.

9:30 am

I forgot to get a stamp again! I have avoided souvenirs, but I bought 5 euros worth here. Two shells and a magnet. I got two stamps, both different, so I am good for today. But if I stop again I may get another. Only thirteen more k! My heart is pounding, and not from walking.

9:45 am

It’s more than spitting rain now. I stop to put on my jacket (which is at the BOTTOM of my pack, of course) and put the rain cover on it. I am near the airport. Planes that I have not heard in a month roar overhead. In six days I’ll be on one myself.

10:10 am

Rain has stopped. Jacket is off. I’ve just heard some pilgrims joyfully greet one another when they thought they’d lost each other on the trail. Wish I was one of them.

10:20 am

Stopped at a bar to use the toilet. Told you these people were serious. 11:00 am

I didn’t pee in that bar; the line was too long. Haven’t found a place yet I CAN pee; what’s happened to a bar every three kilometers? I’m in Lavacolla, the last town before Monte de Gozo, which is essentially a suburb of Santiago. There’s a little over 6 miles to go. Still alone. Got presentation ending though.

11:27 am This is so not fair. Men can pee in a cornfield. No, they’re not in this one. They were on the other side.I can tell I’m hungry. The pack gets heavier when I’m hungry. I’ve walked over seven miles on orange juice, coffee, and a piece of toast.

11:45 am

I’ve stopped in a little bar and gotten a pork sandwich. I don’t know how Ryan survived; pork is the meat of the Camino. If only the Spanish didn’t serve their sandwiches dry. This one’s pretty good.; the bread is toasty and the pork freshly fried. But damn it could use some aioli. Or some fried red peppers. That would elevate it to superb. I’ve wondered if the Spanish just LIKE dry sandwiches or do they not know better? 5.5 miles to go. Still have seen no one I know.

1:15 pm

In Monte de Gozo. Three miles to go. For the very first time my boots are rubbing my ankles. It’s probably the dirty socks. I now remember what I did when this happened once before. I got the silk sock liners I bought and put them on underneath. Hang on a minute.

That feels better. I’ve gone all this way with no blisters (other than the one I self-inflicted) and I’m not going to start now. I still have seen no one I know and I’m losing hope I will. It’s okay. A stranger took my picture at the 100k marker and a stranger can take it again at the cathedral.

The pilgrims are either dawdling in bars or rushing on. Dalilah messaged me last night, and she and Davide are moving very slowly. She doesn’t want it to end. I understand, and I don’t have a relationship that may end when my walk does. Yet I can’t help a pang as I see the couples, hand in hand, finishing their walk together. (2021, Ryan. We’re doing it. But not on St. James’ Day.)

The weather is now beautiful. Clouds make their own solemn pilgrimage across the sky, and the sun peeps through windows of blue. My charger cord has decided to continue working, my knees are good, and my feet are tiredly resigned. Don’t bother telling them the walking is almost over. They won’t believe you.

2:45 pm

I’m in Santiago. It’s weird to see people in suits and normal clothes, living non-Camino lives. A man passes me on the sidewalk, then looked back and gestures toward a fountain, making a drinking sign. I’m confused; the fountain which he indicates is dry. Then he holds up five fingers. What does he mean? Five minutes? My app says 1.5 miles; I’m not going to walk that in five minutes. I meet Elisa.

She is 17 and on Camino with a friend. She has her Compostela and is trying to find her albergue. She also wants to bus to Finisterre and walk to Muxia. She tells me there is a pilgrims’ mass at 7. We both plan to go. Maybe we can make plans then. I use the map feature on my app to help her with finding the street for her albergue. We agree the Spanish in general are terrible about directions. Of course, it could be a language thing.

3:40 pm

I did it! I am here. Alone, as I knew I would be. As I walked the pilgrims who had already arrived cheered. It is apparently a tradition. Encouraging, comforting, and embarrassing.

The spires of the cathedral appear in the distance. But they soon disappear behind other buildings. I encounter pilgrim after pilgrim with their credentials. One is an older woman, perhaps like I would be with 5 years more and 20 lbs less. Our eyes meet, and I see in them the same tearful wonder I feel.

I cross the road with some sin mochillas, but all my animosity is gone. We are all pilgrims now, and this is the end. I walk and walk. The cathedral is gone. I still have the yellow arrows. I have to trust them. They lead me down the tunnel, and then…

Some pilgrims (the sin mochillas, actually) saw I was alone and offered to take my picture. I knew that would happen too. So here I am.

Now I have to go stand in line.

4:30 pm

The line wasn’t that long. I handed the man my credencial (both, I filled one up.) “Did you walk the whole way?” he asks. “No,” I reply. We have to work out the distances I didn’t walk, and my official record ends up being 711 kilometers. That’s 428 miles. I’ll take it. I buy a tube and put the credencial and certificates of distance (the halfway one now sadly dog eared.) Then I find my hotel.

6:34 pm

Guess what I just finished doing?

Nope.

Nope.

Not that either.

Shame on you! I’m not that kind of person.

No, it was…

THIS!

Bathtub!

Bathtub, bathtub, bathtub, bathtub, BATHTUB!

7:19 pm

I’m in the cathedral waiting for pilgrims’ mass to begin. I’m too late to get a seat but the botafumerio is out. Sorry, pictures aren’t allowed. YouTube it.

I wish I could take pictures. The altar is…wow. I’m sitting on the base of a pillar. I can’t see a damn thing. But I’m sitting.

During mass I see Marlene and her husband. I haven’t seen them for a month. They are from Eddie’s group early in my Camino. They tell me they’ve been in Santiago for two days and are leaving tomorrow. This is their second mass. They tell me the botafumerio is supposed to swing tonight.

The mass begins at 7:30. It is mostly a sung dialogue between the priest and the choir. Both are incredible. If God deserves our best He sure got it. I try and stand next to Marlene, but my ankle hurts too badly. I sit on the floor.

The priest begins his homily. I can understand bits. Marlene, who is fluent in Spanish, says, “Oh this is going to be longer than an hour.” When it’s time for communion the priest asks, in English, that only Catholics take it. I go to the crypt of St. James, since with the crowd communion will take awhile.

The supposed bones of the apostle James rest in a silver casket. There is a prayer rail with kneeler before it. I don’t really believe these are the bones of James, discovered hundreds of years after his death. And I CERTAINLY don’t believe that he came to life 1,000 years ago and chased the Moors out of Spain.

But it doesn’t matter. What matters is that people change their lives, open their hearts, become citizens of the world for a brief 30 days because of that silver casket. What does it matter what’s in it?

I thank Marlene when I return. “Moving is better than standing,” I say. Not long after that, the organ music swells, and the botafumerio slowly lowers. I can’t see how it is lit; there are too many people. But the sweet sharp smell of incense begins to fill the cathedral. My breath almost stops. Am I really going to see it? I begins almost hyperventilating with excitement.

The botafumerio rises and begins to swing. It’s path isn’t smooth, as I expect. It clunks and thunks a bit. I take some video (everyone else is) but I don’t want lose the moment by videoing it. I want to be IN it, experiencing it fully. So after a burst where I get the botafumerio at its peak, I stop and just experience the moment.

THIS moment. I have worked and walked and sweated for this moment. Tears course down my face. I think I’m the only pilgrim crying. I don’t care. The incense spreads over the pilgrims, spreading its benediction over the phones raised high. It seems the silver and gold will crash into the ceiling, but of course it doesn’t. The priests are too good for that.

It begins to slow, the arc lessening. It slows to a stop, and soon the mass is over. Although I still hope to attend the 12:00 mass on the 25th, my heart is content. More than that, it is full. I immediately send Ryan a text. “I GOT TO SEE IT!,” I trumpet. “Cool,” he replies. But I know what is behind that seemingly innocuous word.

I haven’t eaten since noon, and it’s almost 9 by the time the mass ends. I send a message to Beverly, but end up wandering the streets in search of food. I decide on an Italian place. I want the cookies dipped in wine they have for dessert. I’ve read about those. But the wine is strong. After the vino tinto I had with the meal, I am literally having trouble feeling the screen as I type this.

So when I’m done, I’ll pour myself back to my hotel (not far, I planned ahead) and maybe take another bath. Then I am going to sleep, in my PRIVATE room, where I can sleep in my underwear or nothing at all, as late as I want (well, kinda, I gotta do laundry in the am) and then head for Finisterre.

I can’t believe I did it. Can you?

This is it. The final albergue before Santiago. I’m nervous, sad, weepy, and excited all at once. I keep checking my credencial. Have I remembered to get TWO stamps a day after Sarria? I forgot yesterday and had to walk back into town and get one at a bar.

The bar wasn’t bad, but the terrace was full of these winged insects. They didn’t bite and they moved fairly slowly, but they were EVERYWHERE. They kept crawling on me. I had my shoes off so going inside wasn’t an option. Maybe they were the reason I lost that post.

I walked with no one today. I was alone the whole day. I saw Liz before she left and I thought we might see each other on the trail, but I never did. I couldn’t leave with her; I had to poop. Pooping in the woods really isn’t possible now; there are too many pilgrims and so many houses you’d be pooping in someone’s backyard. (And pooping in the woods was so enjoyable, anyway.) I still have seen pilgrims doing it, sometimes with a bar still in sight, The bars are getting a little picky about customers only, so I guess these pilgrims can’t or won’t buy anything.

Today I walked into s bar and there was a Coke Zero already out on the counter. I just stared at it in confusion. Was I famous? Was there a network of bar owners messaging each other, saying, “Now watch for the blond American in the hat.”?

It was for someone else, of course, but the waitress gave me my own. You know, I was about to type “the only other thing memorable today” when I totally forgot about getting lost on the highway!

I was coming through Arzúa. With my uncanny ability to lose my way I ended up on a frickin’ HIGHWAY! Cars and trucks are zooming past, some not staying in their lane but coming onto the shoulder where I am. I start hugging the guardrail every time one comes by.

Whenever the shoulder widens a bit I study my map, trying to find where this road and the Camino link up. Curves are the worst. That’s when the cars can’t see you and, not expecting you to be there, drift onto the shoulder.

So when this highway reaches a curve I notice there is a dirt track beside it. I take it. I’m not on the Camino. I don’t care. I’m off the highway and traveling in roughly the right direction. The track dips lower and lower. I’m now following what is essentially a paved over stream bed. I still don’t care.

Finally I get back to the highway. I THINK the road I need is off to my right, so I cross and start up the dirt track. A whistle gets my attention.

Across the highway is an old man, waving and yelling, “No.” I head back, but I can’t cross now because the curve is against me. I can’t see around it. He puts his hand up in a “stop” gesture, and watches the traffic intently. Cars and trucks zoom past, frightening in their proximity.

At last he nods and I cross. I get what is half directions, half a lecture in Spanish. I don’t understand all of it, but I understand “Muy peligroso.” You ain’t just whistling Dixie, Buddy. He tells me how to get to the Camino and I do without incident.

I walk, resist a REALLY good-looking “Tarte Christina,” eat a delicious croissant bocadillo and some ice cream, drink Coke Zero, and the only OTHER thing that happens is my charging cord quits working.

This is critical. The cord I brought from the states quit, so Giorgio gave me his extra. Now THAT one isn’t working.

One of my good decisions was to buy pants and shorts with knee pockets. When my phone gets low, charger goes in the left, phone goes in the right, and the cord stretches across. I frequently loop it into my money belt. (Another very good decision.) But it ISN’T working.

This means my charger, the plugs in the albergue, everything is useless. There is no way to get power from there to the phone. I plug and unplug, turning the small white tab one way and then another. I keep getting the same message. “This accessory may not be supported.”

What!? It’s been supported for almost a month; why this message NOW? I’m supposed to call the albergue to confirm my reservation; I can’t. Compass? Gone. Map? Gone. Camera? Gone. Contact with family, blog, everyone and everything? Gone.

When I get to the albergue I ask the hospitalera if there is a place to buy a new cord. She tells me of one possibility but doesn’t sound hopeful. (With reason, it turns out.)

When I go out to dinner I take the charger and cord. Maybe when they’re flat on the table…it works! I google “charging cords for sale near me” and learn there is a store 13k away in Santiago. (Santiago de Compostela is more than 13k away; I think it’s in a suburb.) I will try and find it or something like it on my way in.

I can’t believe tomorrow is the day! I was crying earlier, because I couldn’t believe I was going to walk in to Santiago alone. I miss Dalilah and Bjorn and Julia, as well as Kristina and Lukas (although walking in to Santiago with them was never an option.) My conejitos. And I asked myself if Finisterre and Muxia were really worth it. (Stupid question. I’m committed now.)

But then I remembered the highway. (As an aside, it seems my life’s ambition is to be hit by a car. Why is that?) I remembered meeting Bev again (I walked with her a bit again today, but she was meeting some Australian girls and didn’t offer to have me join them.) I remembered meeting Dalilah in the garden at Tosantos, in an albergue off the beaten path where none of us were supposed to be. I remembered my mochilla just “happening” to be in a bar where I was having a snack. All throughout this journey, time after time, people and things were there when I needed them. And so they will be tomorrow.

But if I could make a request, it would be to arrive in Santiago with Bev, Jackie, Liz, and Han, to see Chris and Gabriel (who are already there) and for Dalilah, Davide, Bjorn, and Julia to arrive on either the 24th or 25th so I could see them before I leave. This is my wish. This is my prayer. I hope God reads.

Here are pictures.Marker 39This a wall of questions designed to make you question everything you believe.This was a true beer garden.Marker 29Pilgrims on horsesThe dog is wearing a concha.At first I thought there was something wrong with this little guy. He moved funny I don’t think he’s a mouse.. He was nibbling pine needles.

I’m not as far behind as I thought; this was yesterday. I carried my pack that day, but it is getting heavy. My knees hurt more and more. I sent it on today. Here is the morning picture.

I’ve walked mostly alone for the last two days. On the trail I met and talked with Nikolai for a bit. He is from Denmark. He is NOT the Nikolai who gallantly offered to sleep with his girlfriend so I could have a dry bed. (She said no. Quite clearly.) But he knows him.

Nikolai said some things I’ve been feeling. He also resents the sin mochillas and the way they rush past. I guess I should explain what a sin mochilla is.

Your mochilla is your backpack. Many, many, possibly even the majority, of pilgrims who start in Sarria send their packs on. Five euros a day for four days is nothing. Five euros a day for 34 days is something completely different. “Sin” means “without.” So a sin mochilla is someone without a backpack.

Those who started earlier have carried 10% of their body weight for days or weeks, more if there was little water. These pilgrims carry small day packs or nothing at all. You can do that when there is rarely more than three kilometers between bars. And even then some of them are followed, or preceded, by support cars.

I know, I know, I was a sin mochilla today and the day before yesterday. It’s still different.

I could forgive the sin mochillas their speed, and their lack of fortitude, but it’s harder for me to forgive the way they say “Buen Camino.” Nikolai mentioned it, with no prompting from me.

I’ve heard the phrase a thousand times, said it a thousand times. On the lips of a fellow pilgrim it is an acknowledgment. “This journey is hard. May yours go well.” On the lips of a hospitalero it is a well-wishing, a “Godspeed.” On the lips of a priest or a nun it is a benediction. And the villagers along the way say it with respectful admiration. You are clearly someone valuable to them.

But the sin mochillas mutter it perfunctorily, their eyes straight ahead. It is as pallid and meaningless as an American “Have a nice day.” I thought it was just me until something happened that said it wasn’t, and then Nikolai confirmed the feeling.

I’m slow, and I got a late start coming out of Gonzar, so when I straggled out of Palas del Rei on my way to Ponte Campana (I think it was that day. I had my pack, and I didn’t get where I was going till 6:20.)

Anyway, as I walk I hear “Hola!” over and over. A family was sitting on their porch, and there was a toddler, practicing and playing with language as toddlers do. So as I drew near I waved and said, “Hola!” “Hola!,” they answered with wide, open-hearted smiles. “Buen Camino!” And the words were rich and full and as satisfying as the artisanal bread the sign on the gate said they made. And the insipid phrase the sin mochillas had been throwing at me all day was white bread with Velveeta. I hate Velveeta.

Market 59Not all churches are elaborate.Should all bathroom signs be this honest? Marker 49

The rest of today’s pictures The view from Albergue Milpes in Ribadiso. Here I met Liz from Chicago. We both agreed it is sometimes a relief to be with someone who speaks your native language. The two guys from Barbadelo are also here. They don’t speak much English. (Sigh.) They don’t need to.

This is the second time I’ve written this post. Somehow the first neither saved nor published. Augh!

So in Gonzar I met a mom, Jody, and her son, James. James was 11 and we kind of hit it off, so I agreed to sleep in till 7 so I could walk with them. But in the morning Jody said James wasn’t feeling well and they were going to stop walking altogether.

I was annoyed. Here I’d gotten another late start so I could have company, and I wasn’t going to have it. Especially when I saw them in walking gear later. Maybe that was Jody’s way of ditching ME.

Here’s my morning picture. I’m taking pictures of markers when the “tens” change. Somehow I didn’t post 89. I think this is 79.There have been frequent memorials on the Camino. Sometimes benches with plaques, sometimes just a paper picture. This is one of the most poignant. I ate lunch here. Yes, the chickens scratched and pecked around me.So I knew that some pilgrims rented horses, but I’ve never seen them on the Camino. I have, however, seen their poop from Day 1.

It’s not just from pilgrims though. The Guardia Civil patrols on horseback. I didn’t get my phone out in time to get their fronts.The picture of the horse’s butt is actually from a few days ago. It’s waaaaaaay in the distance.

When I was with Dalilah, she talked about how people are buried in a crypt, and then when it’s full they are removed and others put in. I think this is what she’s talking about.The silvery trees are eucalyptus. Beautiful, but considered parasites. They have a tremendous need for water and keep other plants from getting it.Who needs cathedrals when you’ve got this?Or this?The albergue in Ponte Campana serves a communal dinner. Vegetable soup followed by platters of salad, potatoes with green beans and peppers, tortilla patata, and baked chicken crisp with oil. No, I didn’t take pictures. I ate and enjoyed it. Mostly because no “sin mochillas” were there.

Instead there were Americans who also started from St. Jean, Pablo, a couple from Russia who started in Leon, and Enrique. Enrique has done the Camino eleven times, each time starting from a different point. He lives on Tenerife in the Canary Islands.

It’s getting hard to post. There are so many pilgrims they clog the WiFi the way they do the roads, and my data speeds I’m now paying for aren’t always equal to the task. They won’t let me use Messenger at all.

I left Barbadelo late again because I lollygagged around and talked to Fred. He was telling me some theater stuff and I got angry and said, “No!” Some Hispanic ladies startled and I gentled my tone (or tried to.) When Bev came up a few minutes later I said, “You missed the temper tantrum.” The ladies said, “We didn’t. That made us uncomfortable.” So I apologized. Fred tells me I’m scary when I’m mad. But I think it was not only that.

I walked with Bev for awhile but she has an infected blister, so she was slow. I left her in a bar about 5k from the 100k marker. She wanted to experience that with her sister.

Here it is, The 100k marker. A young man from Bordeaux took my picture. That’s where he started, 1000k ago. (Three days before I started 400k later.)

But here is one of the beauties of the Camino. There was no judgment on his part and no envy on mine. We say over and over, “Your Camino is your own.” You do what is right for you. Walk your pace, whether it is fast or slow, carry your pack or don’t, bus or taxi or don’t.

Everyone told me the Camino would be different after Sarria and it is. Not physically, the trails are still gravel or asphalt or rock as they have always been. Here are some pictures to prove it. First marker that’s less than 100.What is different are the people.

There are way more of them, for one thing. I am never alone now, unless I stupidly forget that today is the day I’m going 15.5 miles and I don’t send my pack on and don’t start till 8:30. (Hands behind back, whistling.)

They are a vigorous lot, these pilgrims. They chatter and laugh as they walk, their sticks clattering briskly. Yet I see pale-skinned girls stopped by the roadside putting on more sunscreen, their faces pink with exertion. I saw a young man collapsed by the roadside, his head on his pack, being fanned by the group leaders while the other young people milled aimlessly. These pilgrims throng the bars, sweating and gulping orange juice, while I continue my placid, plodding pace, that nibbles the miles like a snail nibbling a strawberry.

I find part of me resenting these pilgrims. The emotion both surprises and disappoints me. I can’t know their journey, why they started when they did.

Bev told me about a thread on Facebook in a pilgrim group where someone asked if albergues should rank pilgrims according to the distance they’ve travelled. The consensus was no. One woman said, “I have MS. It is as much an achievement for me to walk from Sarria to Santiago as it is for someone else to walk from St. Jean.”

That’s a fair point. We can’t know another’s journey and what challenges they face. So I have thought about it, and I think I know the sources of my resentment.

One, I suspect that for at least some of these pilgrims this is a five day walking holiday with a certificate of achievement at the end. I can only pray, if this is true, that those pilgrims discover the Camino is so much more. The other is, these pilgrims are divided. By language, nationality, the school group they came with. How can they experience the dissolution of barriers, the melding into one culture I have experienced, in five days? I don’t think they can.

I was in a bar and I heard some ladies speaking American English. They were clearly lost and looking for something. True to my culture ( we share language and country of origin and I might know something they don’t) I asked what they are looking for. “Our group,” they reply. “Well I can’t help you with that,” I laugh. “I thought you were looking for a place.” “We’re. looking for that, too,” they said, in the politely dismissive way Americans have.

Because THEIR culture said “I’m not desperate and I don’t know you so I must be independent and refuse help.” I recognized it and understood it, yet it was on a way foreign. And I was sad because I was a pilgrim in a way they were not, in a way I believed they would never be.

So I resent these pilgrims because they remind me I must soon leave this “in between place” and re-enter a divided world. A world where there are standards and expectations, where I am so often found wanting.

Many people dream of opening an albergue on the Camino. Some do it. Others return time after time, year after year. Some come because they feel scattered, and the Camino gives them focus.

But I believe it is also because we long for a place where we are not judged. Where each person’s effort and contribution is honored. If it their genuine effort it is enough, no matter how much or little it is.

Here in this in between place heart speaks to heart and soul to soul, beyond barriers of nationality or even language. (Although as an aside, God really knew what he was doing when he chose language as the tool to divide humanity.)

This is a peaceful world, one that quite literally moves at a walking pace. (Maybe that was part of why those ladies were so uncomfortable. Anger isn’t really something you experience here.)

Here on earth is the connection, the community, the commonality of purpose that we associate with heaven. But because it is on earth it is finite.

I don’t know if it could be achieved anywhere but an “in between place.” I know our souls long for it. We keep having “peace talks” and talking about world peace, because the whole world wants what I right now have. If only it didn’t require so darn much walking.

So I walked through Sarria to Barbadelo and Bev and I got some of the last beds in the place. Ironically, mine is above Judy’s.

And here I was thinking, “This albergue is a big place. She got here hours before me. We may not even see each other.” Not only are we in the same room, we’re in the same bed frame. Clearly there is something unfinished here.

I was late leaving the albergue because I was putting pictures in the last blog entry. The hospitalero was waiting outside, I think to give me directions. I chose NOT to walk an extra 7k to see the monastery.

I walked just over a mile and was in a tiny village, sitting on a rock and having some of the pork sandwich from the night before when a pilgrim said, “There’s a really good breakfast place just up there.” It turned out to be Albergue Ecologico Los Besos, a place I considered staying until I read it had no WiFi.

I don’t take a picture of every single thing I eat anymore, but this orange cake was special. Afterward I continued walking to Aguiada. I saw a chicken with her chicks, and a VERY purposeful cat. He (or she) trotted down the lane past me without a glance. I wondered what cat business was so absorbing.

This is not the purposeful cat. This cat came running to greet me, rubbing himself all over my sticks and legs. I petted him, and he did the “I’ll bite the hand that pets me” thing. Thank goodness I was wearing gloves. As I moved on, he chased my sticks and swatted them. I said, “Warum machst du das? Tu eres un loco gatito, tu sabes?” Which is a weird mixture of German and Spanish but it’s like all my foreign language is in the same drawer, and when I reach in for a word it might be German or Spanish. I don’t always know.

I was between three and four miles away when I realized I had to poop. (Sigh.) Nature toilet again. I laid down my sticks, took off my pack, dug out my wet wipes, and took off my gloves so I wouldn’t get crap on them.

As I forced my way into some brush, something stung my hand. It burned like fire. Then something stung the other hand. I glanced down and there was a pale insect on my arm. I brushed it away, but my arm wasn’t stung. Then something stung me THROUGH MY PANT LEG.

I realized it had to be a plant, but there were no obvious nettles or thorns. I couldn’t tell which plant was attacking me, and I wasn’t going to bare my butt in the middle of that, so I buttoned my pants and decided to find a better place. Less than a quarter mile on I found a bar, which meant a toilet.

My hands burned for hours, and one has a small blister. I don’t know which plant it was, but after I took this picture my finger brushed the foliage by the wall, and the same thing happened. After Spain has provided miles of cherry trees and even some small, sweet strawberries growing by the road, I can forgive it one attack plant. But damn that thing hurt.

I met and walked with Bev today. I knew I wouldn’t walk with Jackie again. If your objective is to share Jesus, you walk with different pilgrims, not the same one. Jackie stayed in Sarria, and Bev and I went on to Barbadelo. But I will lose her tomorrow.

She’s walking with some of her family, and they decided they needed some time apart. But she feels they need to talk and work out some issues. She lives in D.C., and her sister and brother/in-law, with whom she is walking, live in San Francisco. We had talked about how the Camino is an in-between place, which is why politics don’t matter here. I suggested that since the Camino is “neutral territory,” it would be best to have the conversation here. So she is waiting for them in Portomarin tomorrow.

When we got to Barbadelo, Bev and I drank tinto verrano, my new favorite drink, and ate dinner together. I felt so sorry for our waiter, trying to work and watch the World Cup at the same time. We came back and Judy went to sleep in her bunk while I played on my phone in mine until I felt sleepy.

It was raining and had been for hours. Suddenly there was a huge crack of thunder directly overhead. I pulled off my eye mask and said, “Whoa. That was right overhead.” A young male pilgrim from Germsny or somewhere asked, ” You are frightened?” I said, “Are you kidding? I’m from Texas.” “Ah. You have many storms like this.” “Yes. But even in Texas, that was right overhead.”

The windows were slightly open and a fine mist blew on me occasionally. (Top bunk again.) I had been luxuriating in my two favorite things, a warm blanket in a cold room, when I realized the blanket was wet.

There was a leak in the roof above my bed. I probably should have agreed to wake Judy up and move the bed, because it is likely the water will find it’s way to her eventually, but what I did instead was tell the hospitalera. I got moved to another room, much better, no bunks, ACTUAL SHEETS, and two very handsome men who sleep in their underwear to look at. I love the Camino.

Here are the rest of the pictures from today. I love that there are fountains when you need them. This one was very cold. I think it was a spring.