When I awoke to the crowds of students preparing to depart, I

gathered my gear together and went outside to assess the morning.

Since I remembered to take an ibuprofen pill last night the hip

pain was under control, unlike yesterday when I could hardly stand

when I awoke. Dozens of kids were playing around in front of the

refugio, some talking some packing their things, but all seemed to

be in very high spirits. I sat on a bench at the front of the

building lacing up my boots and arranging my pack. Suddenly we

were all splashed with a torrent of water as one of the young

bucks sprayed the crowd from a water bottle. Everyone within range

scattered, myself included. This was followed by much hearty

shouting and laughing. Ah, the energy of youthful hormones. The

first to depart were the Dutch girls, who, when they got across

the road, were uncertain of the correct direction. From our side

of the road the question was intensely debated and directions

shouted to them. The final decision was to continue on the road

and not go across the field as they originally intended.

Leaving Santa Irene.

The walk from Santa Irene is partly on the road followed by a path

through forest paths which eventually open up to a broad field

peppered with new houses being built. The construction techniques

here in Spain are completely different from those in the U.S.

where we still build private homes mostly from wood. Here, the

chief building material is cement, and as I walked through the

field I passed one house after another being built from this

material. The frame is entirely cement: foundation, walls, and

upper floors. I thought it curious the way the second story cement

forms were supported by what seemed to be a random forest of

temporary columns holding it up as the cement cured. When a giant

passenger jet roared into view as it approached Lavacolla Airport,

I knew that my pilgrimage was truly coming to an end. I stopped

for a beer in a bar in San Paio before embarking on the final trek

upwards to Monte del Gozo. I decided to pass on stripping down

naked and bathing in the Lavacolla River even though it is a

longstanding tradition. I reasoned that since I had actually been

bathing regularly, my body odor probably wasn't bad enough to

offend the Apostle, unlike the pilgrims of medieval times. The

flavor of el camino had definitely taken on a distinctly urban

air. Many more people were in the towns and they were neither

pilgrims nor natives. Each step brought me closer to the dense

civilization I started from, a fact that I both regretted and

looked forward to.

Traversing the top of Monte del Gozo along the paved road was

somewhat less than a spectacular finale to a pilgrimage that had

wound its way through some of the finest countryside available

anywhere. Yet, here I was watching the T.V. station towers draw

nearer as I walked through the low bushes fringing the road. After

what seemed longer than it actually was due to my anticipation, I

arrived at the summit. Here I found crowds of people, mostly

bussed in, milling around the small compound and photographing

each other in front of the hideous monument on the lawn. I walked

over to it but, sadly, I couldn't actually pick out the spires of

the cathedral which were supposedly visible from the spot.

Seriously anticlimactic to be sure. Nevertheless, undaunted, I

proceeded down the hill past the gigantic hostel complex where I

was planning to check in until I saw it. For all the world, it

looked exactly like a military barracks, and I simply could not

bring myself to enter. I knew that this was the eve of the

festival in Santiago de Compostela and that there would likely not

be a single bed to be had in town. Still I decided to pass on the

hostel. In addition to its uninviting appearance, this refugio was

far from the old city where the cathedral was located and where I

planned to spend my time. Even further than I thought, it turned

out. At the foot of the hill, I crossed a footbridge over the

eight lane highway and proceeded on a side walk through the city.

At some point I must have lost my way, though I doubt if it

delayed my arrival by much since I was heading in the right

direction. I stopped in a small store and bought a soft drink and

got directions from the owner. I literally walked for hours before

I arrived at the Cathedral at the Plaza de la Platerias. The light

was beautiful and a man was playing bagpipes, especially to

celebrate my arrival I assumed, and it was wonderful. I had been

on the road for 37 days and arrived at exactly the right moment to

participate in the gala celebration that was to begin at midnight

and that had brought people to Santiago from all over Europe. The

air was electrified with anticipation, and clearly, people were

already deep into celebrating. In my own understated way I was elated.

Plaza de las Platerias.

The tradition for pilgrims arriving at the Cathedral is to

approach the magnificent Portico de la Gloria and place his hands

on the Tree of Jesse on the central column, above which sits St.

James himself. Knowing this, I dutifully headed for the Portico

and found the spot at the base of the column, the marble of which

was deeply worn by millions of pilgrims over the centuries. I

knelt down and placed my fingers on the column saying a silent

prayer of thanks to St. James for bringing my pilgrimage safely to

a conclusion. Then, also according to tradition, I knelt again and

touched foreheads with a likeness Master Mateo, the architect

responsible for this masterpiece.

Pilgrim's hand on the Tree of Jesse.

The cathedral was crowded with tourists and T.V. crews were

setting up near the alter to document the mass tomorrow. I left in

search of the registrar to present my credentials and receive my

official certificate of completing the pilgrimage. The gift shop

sent me across the plaza where, on route, I was further directed

by a man who recognized how lost I was. When I arrived at Number 1

Rua del Villar, only a few feet off the plaza, I went to the

second floor and found a calamitous scene. There was a queue

stretching from the room down the hall and pilgrims were crowded

into the room like sardines in a can. Inside the scribes were

preparing the certificates with the recipients name written in

Latin, a tradition which has been kept since the 14th century. To

make matters more interesting, there was a Japanese video crew

taping the proceedings for Tokyo television. The event was quite

fun really, and I met several people whom I had encountered at one

time or another along the way. When it was my turn I presented my

credential (the passport that each refugio stamped along the way)

to the official who asked my name and proceeded to fill out the

pre-printed certificate. All the while the video crew taped, and I

presume the brief transaction would be used to amuse a Japanese

housewife some afternoon.

Pilgrims being taped as they receive their certificate.

On my way out I spoke with Nick briefly who was staying at the

barrack refugio back at Monte del Gozo. He told me that the place

was mobbed and that they had him sleeping on the floor, a detail

which confirmed the correctness of my intuitive decision to pass

on the place. Now I needed to find a place to sleep for the night,

and while this was somewhat urgent, I didn't feel particularly

panicked by the situation. I suppose I had become accustomed to

not knowing where I would sleep until the last minute. I left the

The Certificate.

building and walked up the hill along one of the quaint cobbled

streets of the old city. I had no idea where I was going, but upon

cresting the summit and continuing a few doors, I stopped at a

cafe and sat at a very pleasant table on the street to rest and

have a cafe solo. When I asked the waitress/owner in my

practically non-existent Spanish if she knew of any place for a

poor pilgrim to sleep, she told me that she had a friend who ran a

hotel around the corner who might have something. She immediately

went off to collect her friend and returned with her after a few

minutes. When the discussion began with how crowded the city was

and how scarce rooms were, I knew I was in for a very high price.

As expected, she quoted a very dear price for a room for three

days, and I politely told her that I would consider it and get

back to her. After she left, my hostess confided in me that she

had a room available, and that it was her son's room who was away.

I was, of course elated, and jumped at the invitation to see it.

On the way upstairs past the bar she drove home the conditions

which were mainly that I don't disturb anything, since all of her

son's possessions were still in the room exactly as he had left

them. Of course I solemnly agreed not to touch anything and she

quoted me a very attractive price of 2400 pts. for the three days

which was to be paid in advance. This was less than her friends

price for a single night and I instantly accepted it. Once again

St. James had come through to help a pitiful pilgrim! I thanked

him silently and settled in for a shower and nap before the

evenings festivities.

Table at the cafe where I found a room.

Around 9:00 P.M. I awoke and went downstairs for a cafe con leche

and something to eat. The woman's husband took care of the bar and

they had delightful son who was about 8 years old. Now that I was

an official guest, I was treated with great warmth and

hospitality. They were a charming and gracious couple who went out

of their way to make me feel comfortable.

After eating I headed down to the cathedral to check out the

activities. The streets were crowded with people and everyone was

in a party mood. Boisterous groups of young men sang and drank as

they roamed through the streets and plazas surrounding the

cathedral. It was a gigantic celebration and I felt jubilant just

being there as a witness. Later, as midnight approached, the

crowds were growing, and I thought I would go down into the Plaza

del Obradoiro, the large main plaza in front of the cathedral. I

followed the flow of people in that direction and when I reached

the entrance to the plaza the scene was incredible. Music was

playing and people were packed in so tight that I had no idea how

more were being accommodated. I knew that there were fireworks

arranged in front of the cathedral and that people were crowding

in to witness them. I couldn't handle it, and like the similar

Detail of the Cathedral.

scene in Burgos, I fought my way back out against the tide of

people almost immediately. Once free I felt greatly relieved and

retreated to the Plaza de las Platerias which is my favorite plaza

of those that surround the cathedral. It is small with a beautiful

fountain and a wide staircase up to the cathedral doors which are

graced with elegantly carved columns on either side. Here there

were relatively few people and I found a seat and watched in awe

as the fireworks display commenced. While the fireworks were

designed to be seen from the Plaza del Obradoiro, they were

nonetheless amazing from my vantage point. They seemed to be set

off from the roof of the cathedral itself and I was so close that

I could hear the whoosh and roar of the rockets as they shot up

into the sky. The sound, in fact, was deafening, and the spectacle

was awe inspiring as the fireworks exploded directly overhead. I

have no idea how they avoided having the entire city burn to a

cinder given the enormous quantity of sparks and explosives that

were let loose into the sky above it. I sat amazed and convinced

that the celebration was arranged on my behalf to commemorate my

completing the pilgrimage. This really was a perfect way to

celebrate the completion of the most difficult and challenging

undertaking of my life to date and I felt elated and privileged to

participate.

Detail of the Cathedral.

When the fireworks ended people began to disperse and I sat

wondering where I would find some food since I hadn't eaten supper

yet. I decided to head in the general direction of the crowds

which was straight to the area where night-clubs, bars, and

restaurants were located. The streets were packed wall-to-wall

with people carousing and having a good time. I walked around for

awhile and after passing a brightly lit bar I stopped for some

reason and turned around and went back. Something told me to go

in, which I did, and I stood at the bar and ordered a beer. In a

few minutes Win, a woman I had encountered many times throughout

el camino, came through the door with several of her friends and

we greeted each other warmly. Then I noticed that Evelyn was

sitting at a table with her friend Jean-Batiste, and she came over

and invited me to join them for dinner. Evelyn is from France and

a journalist writing a story on el camino. We enjoyed a wonderful

dinner in the crowded bar over conversation about our various

adventures. Of the hundreds of bars in Santiago de Compostela it

was really quite magical that we should converge on this

particular one on this night. At about 3:30 A.M. we finished, said

our good-byes and departed. I walked into a small plaza were a

rock band was playing and realized that I had no idea whatsoever

where my hostel was located. Then, to complete the magic of the

evening, I followed my feet a few dozen meters and found my hostel

waiting for me right where I left it.

Inside the Cathedral.