Big shoulders

It is our last full day in Santiago. Helen and I ended up with some time to spare. I had calendared enough days from Porto to finish that we would only need to make 10-11 miles per day. But as we fell in with fit and motivated Europeans, in one case hyper-motivated, we smoked along the ol' Caminho Trail and pulled in on the 15th. Our Madrid plane does not depart until Monday the 19th.

Am glad, though, because not only does this give a chance for the soles of the Keens to stop smoking and for the blisters to shrink, but we have a cushion to savor this complex city a bit and, perhaps, savor what has taken place in our souls.

Pilgrims constantly stream into the great plaza from our route, the Via Portuguese, as well as the busier Via Frances. We watch now with something of a veteran's understanding as the exhaustion turns to elation as people, now people we have never met, hug and cry.

This is bittersweet as our own little Caminho family has dissolved. Each continues their pilgrimage by another road. Ramon from Washington has gone on alone to Finisterre on the coast. After drinking wine by a fountain in the sun, Guus and Marian have boarded their bus for Porto then on to Holland. Etan leaves for Switzerland as I write. We will host Marie tonight as we are one more day here, then we fly to Madrid while she, young footpad right out of a medieval story, walks to Finisterre, then bus to Santiago, then walks back along the Caminho Frances to her home in the shadow of Mont Blanc.

There really are such people in the world still.

But Santiago is a holy city, and as such it is complex. The pious, the curious, the adventuresome, the wealthy, the poor, and the bored all flock here. And there is much trade--trinkets, holy baubles, marinated octopus (which is in describable fabulous), simple hostels, luxury hotels all fill the streets. A St James mime slowly swings a huge censer in the square, providing a photo op. You can be a Knight Templar, a weary pilgrim, or just dazed and confused in the streets of the old city.

I like it for its honesty. The Strange Road does not lead to some ethereal bliss, but humanity in all our hustle to make a living and just get by.

At a last dinner, Marian asked what each of us had gained from the Road. I replied that my request of Santiago had been fulfilled. Remembering my romanticized plunge into ancient Celtic mist in Ireland, I had asked the Saint of the Road to let me see the real people along the way, not only my fellow-pilgrims but the people who love and work and get up each day with their joys and sorrows, their loves and losses.

He heard my prayer, Santiago, Big Jim, the majestic and ragged and whimsical Saint of the road. He guided and led and provided, and gave me so much more.

He gave friends, a dear band of fellow-journeyers who understand deeply the Strange Road with the scale of each cobblestone, the weight of wet laundry pinned to your backpack.

The faces...gentle Fernanda who told us of her love of her city Oporto there in her own apartment. The cafe workers who smiled at our efforts to speak Portuguese. The man delighted to give us vegetables. The excited local drunk who encouraged us from his bicycle on that blistering day. The bright and fresh faces of Gonzaga and his choir, the earnestness of Marianna, the inquisitive graduate student and her companions. The kind and the distracted, the indifferent and the concerned. Each and every one who, when we most needed to hear it, blessed is with a "Bom Caminho", "Buen Camino." On some days, only that made all the difference.

On impulse last night, Helen got on the line to enter the Catedral, hug the statue of Saint James from behind, and then pray before his ossuary in the crypt. The evening Pilgrim Mass was taking place as we did so, and as we stood the "botafumeiro " again soared. The cantor's voice again soared with it, and I heard in the lyrics "keep Spain in the faith we received, bless the people of Spain."

Before me a family with adorable preschoolers. The parents pointed out to their curious eyes the baroque statues, the flying censer, and then lifted them to kiss the massive bronze cheek of the great statue eternally gazing over the sanctuary of the great church.

The people of Spain, a nation that guards the Road and the Shrine, tiny children receiving by sight and touch the most sacred of Spain's holy sites, the soul of a nation.

I breathed a prayer for Spain and for Portugal as I leaned on the statue, placed my cheek on his shoulder. His shoulder was massive, heavy, and strong, with the raised ornaments of scallops and stars worn bright from touch.

Gracias, viejo. Thank you, old one.