Santiago, At Last

Yup, I finally understand kilometers

Oct 12, 2021

Well…it’s done! I did it! 550 miles, 870+ kilometers later, I can not only say that I walked across Spain, from its border with France to its Atlantic coast, but I can also say I met the most amazing people and changed the way I both perceive myself and my life (cringggeeee amirite).

Buuuuuut more on that later.

Meseta to Paradise

Last blog post was an essay of complaints about the Meseta section of the Camino. The first day coming out of the plains and into the mountains felt like a rebirth. I spent three days in the Cantabria Mountain region (El Biezo), a lucious section of Spain, especially during the fall. Aside from its gorgeous green mountains, the region’s valleys were covered in vineyards which were being harvested as I walked through. When I think about those few days, I can only think of the word “abundant.”

There was a really striking dichotomy during this portion. For much of it, the landscape oozed with sweetness and I was overtaken by a sort of luxurious haze as I basked in the sunshine of those three days. Paths in the valleys were lined with ripe fruits of all kinds: apples, pears, figs, grapes, and more. One day, after miles of vineyards, I came across a farm where an old man was standing by his fig tree, handing out the ripest, most fragrant figs to pilgrims walking by. On the other hand, there were towering and rugged mountains, cold and foggy in the mornings.

The whole section felt like a dream.

A really iconic Camino moment happens in this stage: the Cruz de Ferro. Just before the highest point of the camino (about 1500 meters), there is an iron cross coming out of a giant mound of small stones and pebbles. For hundred of years, pilgrims have carried a stone throughout their pilgrimage, leaving it at that mound to symbolize the laying down of their earthly burdens. Not only had I carried my stone since the French border, but I had carried it all over Poland and France in the months before. It was a small piece of granite from the top of Mount Washington (in New Hampshire). I picked it up in late June during a hike with my parents. To be honest, when I grabbed the stone with the intention of it being my “Camino stone,” I still hadn’t convinced myself that I would do the Camino. I still felt scared and incapable: could I do this all on my own?

My favorite albergue experience was in El Bierzo in a town called Villafranca. The albergue’s hospitaleros claim to direct the “oldest albergue on the Camino.” While this claim remains disputed, the site was indeed a medieval pilgrim hospital.

Snapped early as I left for an early-morning hike up the mountains that would lead into Galicia

The space itself was a little haven, with picnic benches within the stone walls of the courtyard. When I walked into the albergue to check-in, after a day of hiking alone, the hospitalero told me to take my backpack off (“it’s much too big for a small girl like you!”) and handed me a glass of water, insisting I go into the kitchen later for any snack or coffee I wanted, free of charge. He stamped my credentiale and informed me that we would have a communal dinner that evening with all the pilgrims staying in the albergue.

I spent the rest of the afternoon checking out the mountain town of Villafranca, right on the edge of the region of Galicia. There were beautiful churches and medieval stone structures everywhere, nestled into the small valley surrounded by green mountains. Later I went back to the courtyard and ate some grapes from a local vineyard, enjoying the sun and the chattering of the eccentric albergue staff.

That night was the epitome of what people call “Camino magic.” Machine, the Italians (Giuseppe, Susanna, Leli, Cocca), and Will enjoyed a communal dinner of wine, bread, salad, and Spanish tortilla (basically a giant omelet with potato). At these types of meals you get to meet pilgrims outside of your group which is always a pleasure. This night in particular, the group was rather musical. Giuseppe and an older Italian man both traded off on the guitar while drums, a maraca, and a tambourine were passed among the others. For an hour after dinner we all listened to music and occasionally sang along.

The kind hospitalero making announcements and doing a pilgrim blessing…on a cucumber?

The next morning was just an extension of the magic. Machine and I woke up extra early to take an optional route over the mountains into Galicia. By the time we made it up the steep peak the sun was rising over the valley, covering the town below in a pink haze. The morning became all the better when we met up with Giuseppe and Susanna, who also took the same route. We celebrated the 700 kilometer mark all together (I had been doing a ~secret~ celebration every 100 kilometers…I’ll keep you all guessing). We walked together down into a valley of chestnut trees and small mountain villages.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present the deranged product of exhaustion and 25 days of walking^

Later that afternoon, we had another crucial and notoriously difficult ascent to O Cebreiro, an iconic Camino village.

This marked our official entrance into the province of Galicia, the last and most anticipated section of the Camino.

Green Galicia

Galicia was a green paradise of towering mountains and quaint dairy farms. Its villages of tiny stone houses felt like fantasy movie-sets.

I mean, cmon:

Unsurprisingly, my New Englander ass had to go apple picking…I miss my Northeastern falls, *sigh*:

My favorite morning on the Camino…took the chance to hike alone that day and enjoy the sunrise:

I had one of those single-tear-shed-on-top-of-a-mountain moments this particular morning…it was just *sniffle* so beautiful

Galicia felt like somewhat of a blur because the end was in sight: we were a couple hundred kilometers away from Santiago. I think the anticipation pushed us to walk greater distances each day; I did many 30+ kilometer days as well as two 40+ km days.

This certainly took its toll. While I was elated with just the thought of reaching Santiago, I did start to feel restless. Aside from general exhaustion at the end of these long days, I started to miss “the comforts of home” (meaning my cousin’s apartment in Madrid). Sleeping in a new place every night for 30+ days was both exhilarating and maddening. (Also I was so sick of eating bread and ham for every single meal, yes it was in EVERY meal).

Luckily, as has been true for the entire Camino, the people around me gave me strength. Whether it be Machine and his unlimited supply of electrolytes, or Susanna with her jokes, or the rest of the Italians and, yes, another(!) pasta dinner, I felt taken care of.

Yes, I am fully aware of how freaking cheesy this sounds (Carine, you have feelings!?). Frankly, given my penchant for only writing about political things, I never EVER thought I’d write about my ~feelings~. But here it is…and I hope my (somewhat reluctant) vulnerability can be an indication of the value of traveling out of one’s comfort zone, of challenging oneself in an unconventional way.

10:48 AM, October 25th, 2021: Santiago

Throughout my Camino, I tried to not think about Santiago, what it would be like, or what I would feel like. I just wanted to get there. That was my goal: just get there.

If anyone ends up doing the Camino, I would suggest taking this approach. Santiago may seem like a mythical endpoint. And in some ways it is: the relics of Saint James are there, it’s where pilgrims have ended their journey for thousands of years. But each pilgrim decided they needed to put themselves through the journey for a reason, they needed to conquer mile after mile to prove something to themselves. That’s the real reason you do the Camino.

You do the Camino to walk for something, not to get to Santiago. People’s “somethings” are diverse. Some of my friends were trying to figure out what they should do after graduation, others were thinking about the next steps in their romantic relationships, some said they just wanted to walk (but they certainly had a “something,” everyone does…or at least they do by the end). No one will ever say they are walking to get to Santiago. They are walking to get something, not somewhere.

So what’s my “something?”

I start off thinking it was going to by my relationship with faith and religion, that I would have some major epiphany. While the Camino was certainly a deeply spiritual experience, one that inspired me to trust God more than before, my “something” ended up being different. (Prepare to cringe) I learned how to really rely on myself, to trust my own capabilities.

When I look back with the relatively little hindsight I have at the moment, I am in awe that I did that whole damn trail (kind of) alone. I mean I was never alone in the sense that I made friends, but this wasn’t some kind of summer camp or hiking program. It was me deciding to do the thing and doing the freaking thing.

Throughout my life, I have wanted to think of myself as the girl that could do that. Finally I just did it. This experience has opened the world to me: I can do all those “things” I’ve mused about. Things I would “like” to do, but have found too impractical or daunting (which explains why in a month’s time I’m working on a rural Scottish farm for two weeks…).

The moment I saw Santiago in the distance, 3 kilometers out, I started getting choked up. When I got to the front of the cathedral the tears started flowing. I don’t really know why. It was what I can only call a “sober elation.” I wasn’t exactly overjoyed; I was deeply moved somehow. Looking back, I think this was a deep feeling of gratitude to God and to myself: I (somehow) made it and I now know how far I can push my limits. I think it’s the greatest gift I’ve both received/given myself. It’s really freeing to know your own power, your capability.

I walked the last mile to the Cathedral barefoot, inspired by Susanna and Simone who were doing the same. People kept asking: “is this some kind of aNcIenT tRAdiTioN??” Nah, honestly we just felt like it. If my feet made it 800 kilometers in boots, they could do the last mile without them.

Machine, Jack, and me in front of the cathedral

When we (Machine, Will, the Italians, and I) got to Santiago, we went straight to the pilgrim’s office to receive our Compostelas, documents certifying our pilgrimage. It’s a pretty neat little certificate: a pilgrims name is written in Latin, as it has been for hundreds of years. Henceforth, my pilgrim name is Carinam Hajjar (Unsurprisingly, the word generator gave up on finding a Latin version of my last name).

That evening we all attended the iconic pilgrim mass in the Cathedral, one of the most splendid churches I’ve ever seen. The altar was one of the more decadent ones I’ve ever seen:

I had really high expectations for the mass, hoping I would feel deeply spiritual or have some kind of epiphany or float ten feet into the air and do a somersault or something. But honestly, it was just a normal mass and I’m really ok with that. I walked to Santiago to walk to Santiago; the getting there was and is more important than any ceremony at the end.

One more highlight from Santiago: every evening pilgrims gather in front of the Cathedral for a free live concert. A traditional Spanish band plays while especially ~happy~ pilgrims dance around, celebrating their shared struggle and achievement. It was quite cathartic to be honest. Finally, you can let off some steam after spending 30+ days in a strict routine of waking up, walking (forever), washing your clothes, organizing your pack, finding food, and collapsing of exhaustion.

I spent that very joyful hour dancing with all the Italians and even convincing Machine to dance a bit (no-nonsense kind of guy). “We are not here for pleasure,” he’d often say with a slight smirk.

Remember how I said we let off some steam? After a late night, waking up the next day was no easy task, especially with 25 kilometers to walk. Yup, there was still more walking.

There’s an option to walk an extra ~90 kilometers to reach the Atlantic coast of Spain. Pilgrims have gone to Finisterre (which means “the end of the world,” named back when we were all flat-earthers).

If you’re that close to being able to say “I’ve walked across an entire country,” you just do it.

So we did! And while my body was just done with walking, I pushed through those last three days of beautiful Galician scenery and made it to the ocean with all of my new friends.

Finally seeing the ocean was pure elation. I remember I was rounding the corner of a tree-lined path and could just barely see waves through the morning fog. Giovanni, Simone, and Giuseppe, who had all skipped breakfast and were starving, switched their chant of “Bar! Bar! Bar!” (you basically eat each Camino meal in a bar) to “Mar! Mar! Mar!”

As soon as we got to a beach we all jumped in…we were literally the plot of some cheesy movie.

That night, we made it to the cliffs of Finisterre, the end of my Camino. It was bittersweet: a final memory with the friends I had made.

It took me a while to write about reaching Santiago for a variety of reasons. For one, I’ve been scrambling to plan my next steps post-Camino. It’s been, well, a shitshow (but more on that in my next blog). More importantly, I was really shocked coming back to “normal life” and wanted to give myself time to think about what I would say about Santiago. To be honest, what I’ve written above is just the surface. Everyday I see yet another effect of the Camion on my life and I suspect that will last for years to come.

P.S. Let me have my moment

I was the girl from “Bah-ston” on the Camino (every other person I met looked so disappointed when I didn’t have a Good-Will-Hunting-grew-up-in-Dorchestah-played-ball-in-Southie-Dunkin-runs-in-my-veins type accent…sorry). But as one of the only Americans in a pretty European cohort of pilgrims, I often heard “wow you’re far from home.” And yeah, I did feel quite far from home a lot of the time.

For this reason, I was super excited to get to Finisterre so that I could finally wave “home” across the Atlantic. The minute I saw the ocean, I started jumping up and down: “Hi mom! Hi Rocco (my dog)! Hi family!”

Machine, deadpan, turns to me and remarks, as matter-of-fact as always: “This bay faces south…Africa and Portugal. You are not greeting your family.”

Every new glimpse of the ocean we got, I would do the same thing: “Hi mom! …” The Italians often joined in: “Hi Carine’s mom/Carine’s nonna/Antico Forno” (I told them about my favorite Italian restaurant in Boston which they for some reason thought was hilarious).

*Polish accent* “That is wrong, you have to be precise.”

Hours later, as the sun was setting over the lighthouse, kilometer 0.00 and the portion of the path that faces directly West, Machine turned and said: “You may say hello to home now.” Just as he had done the entire Camino, Machine had directed me the right way (a trusty navigator and friend at all times)

Hi mom!

P.P.S. New Beginnings

Naturally, the last day in Finisterre was hugely sentimental: the sunset, the conclusion of one journey, the beginning of a next adventure, cue the next cliche….

Accordingly, there were many reflective conversations that happened. Walking back from the lighthouse after watching the sunset my friends over some drinks and snacks, I was jabbering on about what the Camino will mean to us in the future, how it’s changed us, blah blah blah (lame). Machine, in his usual manner, listened thoughtfully.

A couple of minutes later my jaw dropped. Machine said something SENTIMENTAL.

“Something ends, something begins”

Wow, I thought to myself, what a profound guy under that serious Polish exterior (Machine is, in fact, very profound…but very reserved). The Camino must have softened him a little, awe.

He wasn’t done: *can cracks open* “Another beer!”

Well, that’s more like it.