I woke up early this morning and headed out of the albergue at 7:00, a chill in the air and the sky still dark with night. I wanted to make it to my final destination, about 5 hours away, in time for the midday mass. Of course, I got lost within 10 minutes because of the poorly marked trails in Spain. There was soon a pilgrim pileup behind me, everyone looking unconvinced at the route marker pointing at a brick wall. It didn’t look like the wall was going to budge. Eventually, I found the way across a railroad track. This had become a common occurence in Spain and I’d gotten used to it, but today I was in a rush. This detour put me behind.
Imagine being in a rush for 5 hours and moving on your feet the entire time. I could only move as fast as my chicken legs would take me, but I was determined to make it to the steps of the cathedral by noon. I walked with a sense of urgency, at a constant hurried pace. Sometimes I found myself jogging down the trail. My large pack was strapped firmly to my back, weighing me down as I bounced with every running step. Sweat rolled down my face and arms, collected behind my backpack and drenched my clothing. It must have been cold out, though; I could see every gasping breath in front of me as I exhaled. I didn’t notice the cold, though. Neither did I notice the pain in my legs and feet. I just moved, jumping from rock to rock and jogging up and down hills. Every time I passed a route marker, I did a quick calculation in my head. I was gaining time but was still behind. The distance markers encouraged and motivated me to keep pushing. 20 km to the cathedral, 15… Soon in the single digits for the first time. It was exciting. I could feel myself getting closer. I jogged past a number of pilgrims, more than I’d ever seen on the trail before.
I passed suburbs, clearly in the city now. People walked their dogs as I moved quickly past them, now following street signs that pointed to the cathedral. I turned a corner and… wow. Two towers triumphantly pierced the horizon and I knew instantly that this was the final destination. I looked down at my watch. 20 minutes to noon and still a ways to go. I jogged through the streets of Santiago, no longer using the hiking stick that I’d pulled from a Portuguese forest so long ago.
When I arrived in the center, I saw that the streets were crowded with tourists. Most were in guided tours with matching hats and shirts, but many were more traditional pilgrims. I weaved in and out of the crowds, finally stepping into the church’s plaza just as the clock chimed. Perfect timing. The bells played a fast and chaotic melody that rang in my ears and vibrated in my bones. I listened to the sweet music that seemed to welcome and congratulate me specifically, leaned on my branch and lifted my head to admire the spires of the cathedral in awe. I stared up at it for a few moments. Was it the most beautiful thing I’d ever laid my eyes on? Maybe not but, in that moment, I knew I had never seen anything so glorious. I’d never felt anything so glorious. For the last 200 km, I struggled through physical and emotional pain. Nothing I’d hoped to come out of this journey came, but in this moment I had no doubts that it was all worth it.
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That's brilliant. Much respect; good for you.