June 10: Arco O Pino - Santiago de Compostella – About 12.5 miles.
Before leaving the albergue in Arco O Pino I poke my head out the door. It’s misting. I throw on the rain jacket, rain pants and backpack. I step outside and try to flip the poncho backward over my backpack. It’s almost impossible to do by oneself. I ask someone to help. He seems annoyed and helps for two seconds. I could tell the poncho is cockeyed and not completely covering my backpack.
As I left the albergue at 6:10 a.m. a dozen or so young local men are still partying in the street from the festival the night before. I learn there’s a social club just doors down from the albergue. Two men try to corner me like they want to dance. At this hour? I did a little rah, rah with my hands in the air and am on my way. I have places to be. Miles to walk, and I'd been hearing those party animals since 3, 4 and 5 a.m.
Once again I walk in the dark. It’s tricky and I get turned around. Another pilgrim joins me and we get turned around together before getting out of town. I pull out my little bitty flashlight and look for yellow arrows. By now it’s drizzling harder and continues all morning.
Walking through the eucalyptus forest offers some rain protection, but there's no getting around the mud. Back home I read that plastic grocery bags can be used to tie around boots to keep them dry. I really doubted this would help but, why didn’t I stop and try this? The bags were at the bottom of the backpack, and there was no place to unpack without getting everything soaked. My feet are wet within the first hour. I plow on.
Further on while moving through the forested area toward the Santiago airport on the outskirts at Lavacollo I stop for one more sello stamp before reaching Santiago. Here I eat another slice of the delicious St. James almond cake. I must find a recipe once back home. The name of this town, Lavacollo – lavar - means to wash and is where ancient pilgrims used to wash and purify themselves before reaching the cathedral. I could use some washing myself, not to mention dry socks and shoes. I’m squishing and sliding in my boots and two pair of wet socks.
Now, my cold, damp and more-than-soaked feet are crying out for attention. I've been walking with wet feet for over 4 ½ hours. I feared trench foot, which I read about happening during World War I. What’s next? Gangrene? Amputation?
Before leaving the albergue in Arco O Pino I poke my head out the door. It’s misting. I throw on the rain jacket, rain pants and backpack. I step outside and try to flip the poncho backward over my backpack. It’s almost impossible to do by oneself. I ask someone to help. He seems annoyed and helps for two seconds. I could tell the poncho is cockeyed and not completely covering my backpack.
As I left the albergue at 6:10 a.m. a dozen or so young local men are still partying in the street from the festival the night before. I learn there’s a social club just doors down from the albergue. Two men try to corner me like they want to dance. At this hour? I did a little rah, rah with my hands in the air and am on my way. I have places to be. Miles to walk, and I'd been hearing those party animals since 3, 4 and 5 a.m.
Once again I walk in the dark. It’s tricky and I get turned around. Another pilgrim joins me and we get turned around together before getting out of town. I pull out my little bitty flashlight and look for yellow arrows. By now it’s drizzling harder and continues all morning.
Walking through the eucalyptus forest offers some rain protection, but there's no getting around the mud. Back home I read that plastic grocery bags can be used to tie around boots to keep them dry. I really doubted this would help but, why didn’t I stop and try this? The bags were at the bottom of the backpack, and there was no place to unpack without getting everything soaked. My feet are wet within the first hour. I plow on.
Further on while moving through the forested area toward the Santiago airport on the outskirts at Lavacollo I stop for one more sello stamp before reaching Santiago. Here I eat another slice of the delicious St. James almond cake. I must find a recipe once back home. The name of this town, Lavacollo – lavar - means to wash and is where ancient pilgrims used to wash and purify themselves before reaching the cathedral. I could use some washing myself, not to mention dry socks and shoes. I’m squishing and sliding in my boots and two pair of wet socks.
Now, my cold, damp and more-than-soaked feet are crying out for attention. I've been walking with wet feet for over 4 ½ hours. I feared trench foot, which I read about happening during World War I. What’s next? Gangrene? Amputation?
Trudging on to Monte del Gozo I ask a fellow pilgrim to take my photo in front of the monument with the likeness of Pope John Paul II. “Turn around,” she says.”Look! There’s Santiago. It’s sunny.” Mount of Joy indeed. The mist has stopped. Santiago looks near. It’s not. It will take nearly another two hours for me to reach the Cathedral.
Once in the city and no longer walking in mud and sludge, I stop at a café that is closed. I don’t dare sit as all seats are wet from the morning rain. I stand and laboriously take off my hiking boots, and two pair of socks dripping black with mud that oozed into my non-waterproof, summer- weight, mesh-enhanced boots. For this I have to take off my backpack. I examine my feet for jungle rot. No. They just look like I’ve soaked in the bathtub too long.
I pull out the collapsible canvas bag where I stow the muddy, wet boots and socks. Hooking it onto my backpack, I'm now wearing ill-fitting Keen water sandals and tread lightly fearing I will twist an ankle. I departed a bit after six, and made good time, I continue walking along following the yellow arrows. Winding my way through the city streets was not difficult, but once closer to the cathedral the yellow markings became less visible. Perhaps I was looking up, instead of looking down for the much too discrete scallop shells embedded in the walk way.
It was my original intention to stop on the way into the city at the Albergue Seminario Menor La Asuncion to register and leave my backpack behind. But alas, I would have missed the Pilgrim’s Mass held only at noon and missed the swinging of the famous botafumerio I’d read about.
Eventually I see a spire between buildings on narrow streets in the distance. That’s it? That’s the cathedral? I question in disbelief. Where is the grandeur? I hear bagpipes and move toward the steps and stone-covered archway. I pause. Something doesn’t look right. Where are the hordes of people? I’ve read about various doors of entry. I ask directions to the main door.
I’ve arrived in Santiago de Compostella ....Woohoo!
"There is no journey worth making that does not end at a cathedral."
T.S. Eliot
Around a few more corners and I come upon the plaza and see other pilgrims. I stand in awe at the grandeur fulfilling my expectations. I gasp at my achievement, “I’ve arrived.” I’m choked up. What else would I expect of myself? I’m not eager to move inside. I want to take in the splendor. Did I mention it was magnificent! I can only imagine back to the 12th century when people were poorer. The vision and faith they had to erect this beautiful house of God. There are larger, more beautiful churches in Europe but the history of this one fills my heart today. The Irish poet John O'Donohue calls it the Eros of a collected community ... a gathered memory.
A few pilgrims are lingering outside. I, as well as other pilgrims who have come with burdens of heart - we are all filled with appreciation, acceptance and forgiveness.
"There is no journey worth making that does not end at a cathedral."
T.S. Eliot
Around a few more corners and I come upon the plaza and see other pilgrims. I stand in awe at the grandeur fulfilling my expectations. I gasp at my achievement, “I’ve arrived.” I’m choked up. What else would I expect of myself? I’m not eager to move inside. I want to take in the splendor. Did I mention it was magnificent! I can only imagine back to the 12th century when people were poorer. The vision and faith they had to erect this beautiful house of God. There are larger, more beautiful churches in Europe but the history of this one fills my heart today. The Irish poet John O'Donohue calls it the Eros of a collected community ... a gathered memory.
A few pilgrims are lingering outside. I, as well as other pilgrims who have come with burdens of heart - we are all filled with appreciation, acceptance and forgiveness.
The Sunday Pilgrims' Mass
It is Sunday. The Pilgrims' Mass starts at noon. The only mass when the botafumeiro is swung. I check my wristwatch that a guide book suggests I leave at home. It is now 11:15 and I move inside. Already the cathedral is packed with pilgrims and non-pilgrim tourists. Even at this early hour there is no place to sit. I’m drawn toward the altar. A few people are sitting on the stone floor to the left of the altar which was somewhat hidden by a pillar. I join them on the hard, stone floor.
Why didn’t I press myself further into the crowd? I don’t know - perhaps the same reason I didn’t take a photo of the dead man. Certain circumstances require dignity. Besides, I’m not a photo-journalist. I’m retired, And now just a housewife. I'm also gentle-natured and it's not my style to push and shove.
Today’s sacred pageantry begins when the mass is celebrated. I receive communion. The number of pilgrims is announced, as well as where they have come from various countries all over the world. My arrival is not included in the numbers, as I haven’t yet applied at the Pilgrim’s Office down the street for my Compostela. That’s where the numbers are tabulated.
All is well. I have a clear view of the mass until the end when the eight maroon-robed tiraboleiros (incense carriers) appear. Swarms of people jump over the barrier ropes and crowd in front of me to take photos. This holy rite is now becoming more of a spectacle then a sacred ceremony.
It is Sunday. The Pilgrims' Mass starts at noon. The only mass when the botafumeiro is swung. I check my wristwatch that a guide book suggests I leave at home. It is now 11:15 and I move inside. Already the cathedral is packed with pilgrims and non-pilgrim tourists. Even at this early hour there is no place to sit. I’m drawn toward the altar. A few people are sitting on the stone floor to the left of the altar which was somewhat hidden by a pillar. I join them on the hard, stone floor.
Why didn’t I press myself further into the crowd? I don’t know - perhaps the same reason I didn’t take a photo of the dead man. Certain circumstances require dignity. Besides, I’m not a photo-journalist. I’m retired, And now just a housewife. I'm also gentle-natured and it's not my style to push and shove.
Today’s sacred pageantry begins when the mass is celebrated. I receive communion. The number of pilgrims is announced, as well as where they have come from various countries all over the world. My arrival is not included in the numbers, as I haven’t yet applied at the Pilgrim’s Office down the street for my Compostela. That’s where the numbers are tabulated.
All is well. I have a clear view of the mass until the end when the eight maroon-robed tiraboleiros (incense carriers) appear. Swarms of people jump over the barrier ropes and crowd in front of me to take photos. This holy rite is now becoming more of a spectacle then a sacred ceremony.
The excitement builds as the brass-bronze-silver botafumeiro is filled with nearly 90 pounds of charcoal and incense. One tiraboleiro gives the 175 pound incense burner a good push while the others rhythmically manage the ropes suspended from pulleys on the ceiling. The botafumerio swings for approximately 80 seconds until it reaches its full arc creating thick clouds in incense.
As it slows down one tiraboleiro is charged with throwing his arms around the weighty object. With some finesse he is propelled into an arc-like dance step as he brings it to a stop.
As it slows down one tiraboleiro is charged with throwing his arms around the weighty object. With some finesse he is propelled into an arc-like dance step as he brings it to a stop.
After mass I saw about eight people I had walked with off and on throughout the camino. I took a few photos. Wished each other well. And offered one last Buen Camino as they continued their journey – to wherever that might be. One group planned to walk to Muxia, as did the characters in the movie, "The Way."
Later, I found my way and climb up to the Pilgrim Office. I turned away thinking the line is too long. I dreaded the long wait. I heard the hours are fixed from 9 – noon, and then reopening from 2 – 9. What else do I have to do? I get back in line. It moves fast and once on the top floor I see there are several clerks issuing certificates. I’m worried about crushing and wrinkling the prized document then see that not all, but several pilgrims have mailing tubes. It’s my turn.
When filling out the form one is asked the name on the passport, the country of origin, the beginning of the Camino (St. Jean Pied de Port for me) and reason for the pilgrimage. Religious or other. If other is stated a different certificado is issued. I state the reason is religious.
Remembering a scene from the movie, “The Way” where Martin Sheen’s character asks for his Compostela to be re-issued under his deceased son’s name, I am prepared and pull out my passport where on the cover I’ve attached a mailing label with my married name. I ask this name be used instead of the name on my passport – long story – my legal name, since it was never changed upon exchanging wedding vows. I ask for a mailing tube. All is by donation with a recommended 1 to 2 euros.
The Compostela is written in Latin. It is a certificate of completion having walked at least the last 100 kilometers. Later I ask my brother, Fr Duane Roy OSB for a translation. HIs is very close to one I found on the internet:
The Chapter of this Holy Apostolic Metropolitan Cathedral of St. James, custodian of the seal of St. James' Altar, to all faithful and pilgrims who come from everywhere over the world as an act of devotion, under vow or promise to the Apostle's Tomb, our Patron and Protector of Spain, witnesses in the sight of all who read this document, that: Mrs. Linda M. Cross has visited devoutly this Sacred Church in a religious sense (pietatis causa).
Witness whereof I hand this document over to him/her, authenticated by the seal of this Sacred Church.
Given in St. James de Compostela on the 10th of June, 2012 A.D.
Later, I found my way and climb up to the Pilgrim Office. I turned away thinking the line is too long. I dreaded the long wait. I heard the hours are fixed from 9 – noon, and then reopening from 2 – 9. What else do I have to do? I get back in line. It moves fast and once on the top floor I see there are several clerks issuing certificates. I’m worried about crushing and wrinkling the prized document then see that not all, but several pilgrims have mailing tubes. It’s my turn.
When filling out the form one is asked the name on the passport, the country of origin, the beginning of the Camino (St. Jean Pied de Port for me) and reason for the pilgrimage. Religious or other. If other is stated a different certificado is issued. I state the reason is religious.
Remembering a scene from the movie, “The Way” where Martin Sheen’s character asks for his Compostela to be re-issued under his deceased son’s name, I am prepared and pull out my passport where on the cover I’ve attached a mailing label with my married name. I ask this name be used instead of the name on my passport – long story – my legal name, since it was never changed upon exchanging wedding vows. I ask for a mailing tube. All is by donation with a recommended 1 to 2 euros.
The Compostela is written in Latin. It is a certificate of completion having walked at least the last 100 kilometers. Later I ask my brother, Fr Duane Roy OSB for a translation. HIs is very close to one I found on the internet:
The Chapter of this Holy Apostolic Metropolitan Cathedral of St. James, custodian of the seal of St. James' Altar, to all faithful and pilgrims who come from everywhere over the world as an act of devotion, under vow or promise to the Apostle's Tomb, our Patron and Protector of Spain, witnesses in the sight of all who read this document, that: Mrs. Linda M. Cross has visited devoutly this Sacred Church in a religious sense (pietatis causa).
Witness whereof I hand this document over to him/her, authenticated by the seal of this Sacred Church.
Given in St. James de Compostela on the 10th of June, 2012 A.D.
- Signed: Chapter Secretary"
I walk back into town to find a place to eat.
In the plaza outside the cathedral matronly women are bombarding pilgrims with flyers to stay in pensions - rooms in private homes. I’d not researched this in advance. I’m a little nervous and feel it could be unsafe. When in doubt I trust my gut. I am aware to be cautious about pick-pockets.
Three college age students from Fairfax, Virginia ask to interview me for a school program. “Where did I start? Why? Best experience?” It was a shallow interview but led me to question myself. What was my best experience? The bad were easy to identify: Nearly everyone had some kind of ailment. Even though I started off injured I ended up in better shape then some. I felt androgynous. The baggy hiking pants didn’t help. No cosmetics. Really stripped bare. I was concerned about bed bugs. I didn’t even know what a bed bug looked like. A woman described they look like an apple seed.
The best experience? Has this pilgrimage brought me closer to the Almighty? To my self awareness? I am more sympathetic. Compassionate. I realize a homeless person faces this every day. I will continue this soul searching later.
After several finger-points in the right and wrong direction in the distance I see the seminary albergue up a steep hill. For once I feel the weight of my backpack. It’s about 3:30. The office is only open from 2 – 4. Then open again at 6. I must pick up my pace.
The hospitalario asks if I would like a private room for 17 Euros, or a group room for 12 euros. I spurge for a private room for two nights. It’s my one big treat of the journey. The room is small. What else would I expect from a monk or seminarian’s room? It does have a sink and a closet – with no hangers. I completely empty the back pack, sort though, save or throw away papers. Now I can’t find my camera. I’m always worried about misplacing something.
Here I can repack without bumping my head on the ceiling or a lower bunk. It would be nice if this private room had a chair. It’s difficult for me to read the guidebook in bed. I wish I had a real book to read. Although the light is dim and my eyeglasses are crooked and I’m afraid to bend them too much for fear they will break. More audio books on my iPhone would be ideal. I’ve already listened to all three. Twice.
Shortly after I get settled I question whether being isolated in this cell is the correct choice. Again I feel alone. I’m about to fall apart. I’m physically and emotionally exhausted. The wheels are coming off. Take a deep breath I tell myself. I’ve been through a lot. Just because I’ve reached Santiago doesn’t mean my journey is finished.
I busy myself with laundry and hang on portable racks set up for this purpose in the hall adjacent the hand-washing facility.
My boots are soaked. I walk down the three floors and ask the hospitalario for newspapers. None. “Everyone else beat you to them,” he says. I’d best be determined to find some tomorrow, otherwise, boots will never dry in this damp climate.
The hospitalario was not overly friendly and rarely smiled. He was probably on the lookout for cheaters such as the Rastafarian-looking girl with dreadlocks who sprinted up the steps. He called out to her, “12 euros!”
“I’m just going to talk to my friend who is staying here.”
“No. You can’t go up unless you pay.”
“But, I just want to use the toilet.”
“No. Not unless you pay.”
I’m too cold and tired to walk back into the city. Tonight I stay in. Besides, I’m on stimulus overload. It’s nice to have the quiet community room four floors down in the basement. I find Knorr minestrone soup mix for 1 Euro in a vending machine. This makes up for the 17 euros I spent on the private room. The kitchen is equipped with a cook top, microwave and dishes. Here pilgrims can cook, eat, sit together. Some are watching the soccer game. Madrid wins! Others are reading. Two people are on the paid Internet.
“Hi! Where are you from?” Marcy parks herself next to me. She was talkative, bubbly and just what I needed. We talked for a while before she excused herself to go back into the city to meet with a woman she met earlier who was staying at an albergue near the cathedral. She planned to stay there the next night.
After Marcy leaves I write in my journal. A man from Norway comes over and starts a conversation. He is not a pilgrim. Not on the Camino. Just traveling through Spain. He will be staying at this albergue for 17 days. Evidently rules are different here. The most one can stay at other albergues is one. Two days if you are injured and requires a doctor's note.
I plan what to do tomorrow. I’d like to get to the cathedral plaza by 11 in time for the noon mass. I plan to purchase many rosaries and postcards.
I’m still considering taking the train to Poland, Switzerland or Struggart, Germany to meet with my son, David and Leslie, who are there on a business trip. I await an email from them.
In the plaza outside the cathedral matronly women are bombarding pilgrims with flyers to stay in pensions - rooms in private homes. I’d not researched this in advance. I’m a little nervous and feel it could be unsafe. When in doubt I trust my gut. I am aware to be cautious about pick-pockets.
Three college age students from Fairfax, Virginia ask to interview me for a school program. “Where did I start? Why? Best experience?” It was a shallow interview but led me to question myself. What was my best experience? The bad were easy to identify: Nearly everyone had some kind of ailment. Even though I started off injured I ended up in better shape then some. I felt androgynous. The baggy hiking pants didn’t help. No cosmetics. Really stripped bare. I was concerned about bed bugs. I didn’t even know what a bed bug looked like. A woman described they look like an apple seed.
The best experience? Has this pilgrimage brought me closer to the Almighty? To my self awareness? I am more sympathetic. Compassionate. I realize a homeless person faces this every day. I will continue this soul searching later.
After several finger-points in the right and wrong direction in the distance I see the seminary albergue up a steep hill. For once I feel the weight of my backpack. It’s about 3:30. The office is only open from 2 – 4. Then open again at 6. I must pick up my pace.
The hospitalario asks if I would like a private room for 17 Euros, or a group room for 12 euros. I spurge for a private room for two nights. It’s my one big treat of the journey. The room is small. What else would I expect from a monk or seminarian’s room? It does have a sink and a closet – with no hangers. I completely empty the back pack, sort though, save or throw away papers. Now I can’t find my camera. I’m always worried about misplacing something.
Here I can repack without bumping my head on the ceiling or a lower bunk. It would be nice if this private room had a chair. It’s difficult for me to read the guidebook in bed. I wish I had a real book to read. Although the light is dim and my eyeglasses are crooked and I’m afraid to bend them too much for fear they will break. More audio books on my iPhone would be ideal. I’ve already listened to all three. Twice.
Shortly after I get settled I question whether being isolated in this cell is the correct choice. Again I feel alone. I’m about to fall apart. I’m physically and emotionally exhausted. The wheels are coming off. Take a deep breath I tell myself. I’ve been through a lot. Just because I’ve reached Santiago doesn’t mean my journey is finished.
I busy myself with laundry and hang on portable racks set up for this purpose in the hall adjacent the hand-washing facility.
My boots are soaked. I walk down the three floors and ask the hospitalario for newspapers. None. “Everyone else beat you to them,” he says. I’d best be determined to find some tomorrow, otherwise, boots will never dry in this damp climate.
The hospitalario was not overly friendly and rarely smiled. He was probably on the lookout for cheaters such as the Rastafarian-looking girl with dreadlocks who sprinted up the steps. He called out to her, “12 euros!”
“I’m just going to talk to my friend who is staying here.”
“No. You can’t go up unless you pay.”
“But, I just want to use the toilet.”
“No. Not unless you pay.”
I’m too cold and tired to walk back into the city. Tonight I stay in. Besides, I’m on stimulus overload. It’s nice to have the quiet community room four floors down in the basement. I find Knorr minestrone soup mix for 1 Euro in a vending machine. This makes up for the 17 euros I spent on the private room. The kitchen is equipped with a cook top, microwave and dishes. Here pilgrims can cook, eat, sit together. Some are watching the soccer game. Madrid wins! Others are reading. Two people are on the paid Internet.
“Hi! Where are you from?” Marcy parks herself next to me. She was talkative, bubbly and just what I needed. We talked for a while before she excused herself to go back into the city to meet with a woman she met earlier who was staying at an albergue near the cathedral. She planned to stay there the next night.
After Marcy leaves I write in my journal. A man from Norway comes over and starts a conversation. He is not a pilgrim. Not on the Camino. Just traveling through Spain. He will be staying at this albergue for 17 days. Evidently rules are different here. The most one can stay at other albergues is one. Two days if you are injured and requires a doctor's note.
I plan what to do tomorrow. I’d like to get to the cathedral plaza by 11 in time for the noon mass. I plan to purchase many rosaries and postcards.
I’m still considering taking the train to Poland, Switzerland or Struggart, Germany to meet with my son, David and Leslie, who are there on a business trip. I await an email from them.