I watch Galicia blow past me outside the window at 300 kilometers per hour. I feel sick; I've been walking at a mere 5kph for more than five weeks. The lush, green landscape of the mountains reminds me of Guatemala, except I'm on a train wearing a scarf and a fleece jacket instead of on a chicken bus wearing shorts and flip flops.
On Saturday we drove to Finisterre, which is known as "the end of the world," and for many pilgrims, the end of the Camino. After arriving to Santiago, many people continue walking another eighty kilometers to get to this quaint little town on the ocean. I suppose for some the draw is reaching the coast, but for others it is because they haven't accepted the end. They feel the need to keep walking, or to spend just a few more days with their treasured companions. To be honest, if my schedule was wide open I probably would have walked it, too. The Camino is addicting; I can see how people lose themselves entirely to it. We have met people who stay on the Way for years, walking back and forth, working here and there at different albergues, repeating the same trek over and over again. As Paca wisely said, "I think one of the lessons of the Camino is learning to let it go."
It is proving to be one of the hardest lessons yet.
We have faced countless ups and downs in the last few weeks. There were times that I was so miserable that I seriously considered quitting. Walking in the nonstop rain for days on end, wearing a raincoat that wasn't actually waterproof, knowing that everything in my pack that was dry was getting soaked and everything that was already wet from the day before was never going to dry. Having to sit down every night and stick a sterilized needle and thread through my blisters. Tromping through puddles in sandals, my socks filled with water, mud, and cow shit for eight hours straight. (And then having to peel the skin off my raw blisters because the tiny needle-holes got filled with cow shit water.) Walking through the endless Spanish plains in the blazing sun with kilometer after kilometer of nothing but empty fields and haystacks, my mind slowly turning itself inside out. There were showers that would electrocute you every time you pushed the button to keep the water going, bed bugs around every corner, rude waiters and hospitaleros, and people who snored so loud that even with wax earplugs you couldn't sleep through it. It's actually quite incredible that people can make sounds that loud without being conscious.
Through all of the bad times, though, were some of the most incredible experiences of my life. There was one day that we were at a restaurant having lunch and the four of us were laughing so hard we were nearly crying. I felt on top of the world in that moment, surrounded by my friends and laughing about Jim's foot cream. We spent hours and hours each day just laughing about the silliest things. We had serious conversations about how to change the world, we ate chocolate all day, and we slowly made our way across Spain. Seeing the world on foot was the most intimate way I have experienced new places. When you're in a train or a car, you miss the little details. You don't get to see the old men playing bocce in the park, you don't notice the people carefully cutting grape bunches from the vines during harvest. You don't get to stop and chat with the old woman who tells you about how her dog humps the throw-pillows every day. Walking between these tiny rural villages in Spain gave us the chance to become part of the Way. When you can feel the ground beneath your feet and smell the grapes ready for harvest, you connect with the land. When you wash your socks and underwear by hand and carefully bandage your feet, you feel alive and veritable. The raw emotion that you feel every day, the connections that you form with complete strangers as you brush your teeth together, they make you realize how precious each and every moment is.
As the mountains fade back into plains outside the window, memories flash in and out of view. My mind, body, and soul are exhausted. I feel like I am a hundred years old, but I also feel like I have earned it.
K
Valencia, Spain
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