Day 39: Santiago

Now I don't like to be that arrogant, rich, ugly American tourist guy, but when we presented our hot sticky selves to the tourist information fella in O Pedrousa the oppotunity to play the part just presented itself. While the temp had not reach 37C of the day before, it had been at least 30C. I had heard from Daniel, the Texas kid, that plans were afoot among the younger folk to 'beat the rush' into Santiago by getting up at 2:00 and doing a bit of night walking. Imagine the fun: an albergue with bunks  for 100, a line for showers, competition for space to dry clothes, and folks rustling around in the hot night as they pack up. Well, this ugly American suggested to Pete that we get a pension for our final night. The tourist information guy suggested one, called ahead to make reservations, gave us printed directions and off we went: ugly, quite ugly, rich (the albergue is 5, while a pension with a bathroom ensuite is 15 to 25), Americans clutching the paper key to a night with only their own snoring to deal with.
A German couple had listened in on our conversation and fell in with us hoping to get a room as well. He was with the tax office and she was some kind of bond and banking lawyer. They weren't ugly at least.  We trudged along the hot road talking of the fate of the Euro when Italy's soon to come bank failures hit, Merkel (he said, 'nien Merkel'), and Germany' prospects against Italy in the EuroCup semifinals. We passed the albergue. There in the front yard were 40 or 50 pilgrims sprawled on their packs in the hot sun waiting to begin the tedious process of check in (show pilgrim credential and get a stamp, show passport, enter name, citizenship, region, mode of travel--foot or bike, and point of origin for pilgrimage). We walked by to the next building. The pension was air conditioned (a first) and had an endless supply of hot or cold water in whatever proportion I selected--paradise. Thank you late middle age, 2 income, American, mid-life, career arc. I'll deal with the ugly and try to repent of the arrogant.
Despite the comforts, I slept fitfully. The next morning brought our last sort through and pack up, our last pack hoist, and our last set out into the cool Spanish bird chirping morning. We only have 17K to walk so the pace is easy and comfortable for my aching knee. The Way winds through a couple of small quaint hamlets full of old stone houses, animal barns, and flower filled gardens just as we have seen for 38 other days. Entire families with young children, rowdy teens, and smiling older types are walking--all beaming with excitement, imagining the square and the church at walk's end today.
There are bars aplenty with numerous outdoor tables sprinkled about this morning. We stop for coffee and treat ourselves to a nutella filled croissant and fresh squeezed orange juice. We strike up conversation with a couple of Irish women (I wish I could say 'lassies' and 'laddies' with the same musical lilt that our Irish friends, Eugene and Peter, had back on day 1 and 2) and an American guy. The women have done about 10 days of Camino Frances as a holiday. We get that look of respect and awe (well maybe I exaggerate the awe part) when we say, "We've done 39 days from Irun--the Northern route".  We pull out our guide books and help them plan their next years holiday--the coast of Cantabria from Bilbao to Santander, a 6 day walk with a couple of lay on the beach days thrown in."  Buen Camino lassies. 
We push on and begin to discuss "What does it all mean?"  We are like the break shot in a game of pool, careening all over the place: God, wives, vocation, wives, church, family, wives, the future, jobs, emotional life, spiritual life, and yes, wives.  We finally get to the equipment requirements and proper techniques for making soup stock and its uses in the various cuisines of fall and winter in Michigan.  We also recount stories of the intense debates and occasional kitchen murders that have occurred over the 'proper' way to prepare meatloaf.  Thirty eight days of difficult and mostly glorious walking in Spain has such a way of focusing the mind on the very core of important existential matters don't you see.
We break again for another coffee as our distance is so short today.  Marta and Hector, the young couple and their friends we met in Vilalba appear.  They are excited to be finishing.  The Irish women and the American fellow appear.  This time I really get to talk with Geraldine.  She's a blood lab tech/manager.  Some years ago she was asked to try to adopt their storage protocols to a lower tech environment.  She worked and worked on the project and then decided she better 'see it throught ya know'.  She travelled for five weeks across west Africa in a truck with a team of 8 others.  She has been back 5 more times from Kenya to Ghana.  I loved listening to her tell her stories.  She is one of those folks you meet who, without tooting their own horn, is just going about the business of bringing about healing to the world.  Her life seems so much about 'give, give, give' and quite frankly my life back home seems so often nothing more than 'take, take, take' or worse, 'talk, talk, talk'.
As we walk on we leave the charm of walking through the countryside behind.  Santiago is the regional capital.  The airplanes that have only been bits of silver shimmering in the sky are now dropping down with all their noise and speed and smell.  We walk past the end on the main runway.  Luckily none drops right over our heads as we pass.  Signs for Santiago are all around now.  We get temporarily sucked down into the seemingly endless undertow of 'please use my camera' to take the same picture of the group in front of the sign.  The Koreans who nearly drowned us in their kodak moment were completely suprised to find I had visited their fair country, and soon I will again, at least as a digital image smiling with them.
As we enter the city we are still 2 or 3K from the 'old city' and its Cathedral.  I have been fortunate to have had only one blister on my feet in the 6 weeks of walking (it was on the top of a toe and did not affect my gait).  Yet now, so close, St. James seems to be reminding me that great blessings sometimes have a price.  My feet seem to explode with hot spots (the first signs of trouble that often lead to blisters).  We find a shady area near the university and sit, take off boots, drink our water, eat an apple, and relax as if this break is no different from any other we have taken.  After a good bit, Pete hoists pack and says, "I'm ready to get there."  Off we go.
We approach the old city.  The streets get narrower and narrower.  Pilgrims, laden with backpacks and smells of exertion crowd in among Spanish folk going about their own business.  The streets get twisty and stone in that medieval sort of way of cities built before automobiles.  Pete and I get turned around and slightly confused about direction.  We hear Gallic pipes playing the spritely Celtic music of the region: a busker dressed in Galician garb is making a living amongst the echoing stone.  We see an opening of light ahead, we must be near square.  We head that way.  Under an arch, past the busker, we see a corner of bright light.  We turn the corner.  It is the square.  Pilgrims are milling about.  The great cathedral of St. James rises to our left.  More pilgrims arrive.  We are bruised.  I limp.  We have carried burdens and joys these many days.  Now we are giddy, absolutely giddy.  We cry.  We hug.  Arms open and raise in triumph.  St. James, so long ago you called my name.  Now, three years and 500 miles, limping but overwhelmed by joy, I have come.  I have come.