Camino cont'd

As the morning went on, though, the sky darkened little by little and by 11 the shower was on completely.  I pulled out my poncho and scrambled to get it on and over my pack, and luckily there was a nice older man behind me who helped me get it right.  We talked briefly but as I was getting hungry, I decided to pull off at a bar to get out of the rain and eat the rest of my pizza from the night before.  There’s nothing better than a morning beer and cold pizza!

When the rain looked to be slowing up, I put on my pack and my poncho and headed back out to finish off the last 10 km of the day.  The showers were on and off all day, which meant for me, a very annoying up and down of my plastic, oversized hood.  All was well though and the scenery was great—lots more empty fields, farms, cows and mud...

kilometer 44.5 from Santiago

surely the work of a pilgrim

After a few hours of walking alone through the mud, a red-beared Irishman a bit older than me walked up beside me and asked politely how my walk was going.  I answered and we went on talking together for the next few kilometers.  He was from western Ireland (I forget the town), off work from his family’s pub for six weeks to finally walk the Camino like he’d always wanted.  His accent fit the stereotype but he used a lot more “American” slang than I expected (“No way!,” “That’s so cool!”) and our conversation was funny and went along nicely.  We passed a bar along the way and of course, as if the accent and beard weren’t Irish enough, he screamed out in happiness and asked if I wanted to grab a beer.  Of course I said yes.

Inside the small bar, we ordered "dos cervezas grandes” and pulled up two chairs to join the circle of other pilgrims already sitting, laughing, drinking around a table.  At first glance, I recognized four of the six from past bars and albergues, but the other two were new.  After a few minutes of introductions, this was the crowd: Maya from Bilbao, along with her boyfriend Xavi, and two other friends from Barcelona; Paulo from Milan, Italy, who spoke good Spanish and just a bit of English; Sun Yoo from South Korea, who was small and quiet but spoke good English, too; Owen from Ireland; and me, the American, or YONK-ee as they joked with me.  The conversation was fun and lively, and though I didn’t say much, I very much enjoyed the company.  The bar owner did most of the talking from across the bar, where he was frying up fresh, candied bacon in the corner on a small, woodfire, tin-foil covered griddle.  Every few minutes he would set down another plate-full and cut it up into little pieces for us to eat with our hands.  By plate four it was just Owen and I chowing down, no shame at all.  I sweat I've never had bacon that good…

After a few beers (just one for me), the rain that started as we sat down had finally passed, so we grabbed our packs and paid the nice but kinda-crazy bar owner and hit the road as a big, motley crew.  I talked briefly with Sun Yoo about the World Cup in Korea back in 2002, then with Xavi about Spanish soccer and all the reasons why Messi is better than Ronaldo.  After a few kilometers we passed through a small town and, seeing as the mile-markers had dropped below 30, I said farewell to my new friends and set off to find an albergue for the night.

This is where things turned on me.

So on my own now, I ventured off the Camino and into the first bar I found.  I asked the bartender where the nearest albergue was and he gave me confusing directions that, to me, amounted to “turn left, climb a small mountain, turn right, it’s the house at the top.”  Simple enough, but as soon as I left it of course started to rain again.  I put my hood on and set off to find the albergue on top of the little mountain, and after a bit of walking, I eventually found a building with a small “rooms for rent” sign in the window.  Just as I walked up to knock on the door, a black car pulled into the driveway a three older men got out and asked if I wanted to stay the night.  I said yes and the driver answered with, “20 euros."  I immediately I told him that I didn’t have enough money and he dropped the price to 15.  “Is there another albergue in town?” I asked.  “The book that I have says that there is.”  He told me that the next albergue was three kilometers away, so I said sorry and thank you and hit the trail again in all its rainy, muddy wetness.

As I walked, the sky darkened even more and the rain started to fall harder.  The sleeves of my hoodie, poking out under my poncho and wind-breaker were drenched and consequently froze my hands.  Both of my legs had intense shin splints--the honest-to-God worse of my life--and as I walked I imagined myself looking like Yoda from Star Wars, hobbling along with my cane down the rocky trail.

After two kilometers of cold, painful misery, the trail led me out along the highway and I passed a lightpost with an advertisement for an albergue.  My mood was immediately raised and I quickened my pace, wincing with every step.  The trail led me past a few road-side restaurants with no sign of an albergue, and past that, the trail cut back into the woods and out of sight of all civilization again.  The rain was unceasing.

Another kilometer later—still hobbling, still alone, now thrashing my walking stick in frustration at every low branch before me—I came to another advertisement for the same albergue.  It’s promise of warm, comfy beds and home-cooked food led me off the main Camino and down a smaller stretch of road lined with pine trees and chain-linked fence and lots and lots of barking dogs.  Against my better judgment, I desperately limped on, convinced that I couldn’t walk another kilometer if my life depended on it.  My shin splints were throbbing and I could feel my ankles swelling with every step, and at the end of the road yet another flyer with an arrow pointed me to the left.  I turned to continue on, but instead could only throw my walking stick to the ground and let out a furious yell as I stared down the long, straight dirt road before me.  No sign of an albergue, no sign of anything.  Just a lot of mud, a lot of rain, and a lot of trees.  I was broken.

I started off on a run down the trail, my pack bouncing behind me on my sore shoulders, my knees and ankles creaking with every heavy step.  When I was too tired for that, I slowed back down to the hobble and cringed onwards through the mud as it splashed up and into my shoes.  At the bottom of the hill I turned and found a cement tunnel filled with happy graffiti that read phrases like “Buen Camino!” and “Te quiero!”  and stopped there.  Out of the rain, I ripped off my poncho and unclipped my pack.  I leaned back against the wall and slid all the way down to the ground and just sat there in a pathetic pile and rested my tired head on my tired knees.  I thought about crying and just giving up right there, but when I lifted my head and looked up, there before me on the wall, in yellow spray paint, was just what I needed: “Public Albergue” with an arrow to the right, “Private Albergue” with an arrow to the left.

I wasn't the first person this had happened to.

I made the quick decision that a night in the warehouse-style hostel wouldn’t cut it after a day like this, so I heaved on my pack and poncho and headed back out into the rain.  I was met with an immediate, slippery hill, and at the top of that, with the guidance of a whole army of yellow arrows, I found exactly what I was looking for: a little white house with smoke coming out the chimney and a sign over the front door that read very ambiguously, “Pilgrim’s Albergue.”  I made it to the front door and knocked hard.  This is what I found inside:

It was like staying in someone’s home!  The living room had a sofa and arm chairs and a big, warm fire burning in the fireplace; the table was set with real, matching plates and silverware and wine glasses from the china cabinet; the shower had a removable head with a strong, massaging stream and hot water that didn’t require you pushing a button every 30 seconds to keep it coming; the bedroom was cozy, the 7 bunkbeds made of squeakless wood, dressed in real, cotton linens with TWO flannel blankets to keep you actually warm.  The whole place was absolutely through-the-roof amazing and exactly what I needed after such a miserable end to my great day.  And it gets even better…

So after setting down my things and introducing myself to the mom and daughter owners, I took a nice, long, relaxing shower, and when I got back to my bed to change clothes, there was a note on my pillow in beautiful, cursive Spanish: “Dinner is at 7:30.  Soup, main course, dessert.  We hope you will join us!”

Wow.

So I dressed and relaxed in bed for a while and did a bit of writing, all the while only two other pilgrims were there with me in the room, both sleeping.  Around 7:15, though, a loud group of younger people with very strong, very obnoxious English accents busted in and completely disrupted the tranquility of the whole scene.  I gave the obligatory hello and continued writing while they stripped out of their soaking clothes and stunk up the whole place.  By 7:25 I could stand the noise and the smell no longer, so I put up my things and followed the other couple with the same idea into the dining room.

While we waited for the others to finish their showers and change clothes and join us, I sat at the table and talked with the 40-or-so old brother and sister from North London.  Their accents weren’t quite as strong as the others, but I definitely heard enough “quite” and “rather” to have my fill for the night.  When the young crowd (five of them—three boys, two girls) finally came in, the conversation started with the usual “where are you from?” and of course, when it was discovered that seven of the eight people at the table were from London, my role was reduced to spectator.  They were all very friendly, though, and directed a few questions towards me, but when I announced that I’m a supporter of the soccer team Manchester United, all let out a resounding groan.  All I could do was smile.

Around 8, as typical with later-than-you-say Spanish custom, dinner was served.  The first course was some kind of stew with noodles, carrots, and chunks of chorizo, my favorite Spanish food of all.  I slurped it down as quietly as I could, remembering more than ever Mrs. Reynolds’ dinnertime adage “like you’re dining with the queen,” and after my third bowl I called it quits, not wanting to spoil myself for the main course.  When all were finished, the bowls were cleared and the entrée brought out.  Oohs and ahhs were had as the plates were put down before each guest: a good cut of codfish with roasted red peppers, potatoes, onions, and peas, all swimming nicely in a orangish-red sauce.  The smell was fantastic and when all were served, the conversation was put on hold as everyone dove in and shoveled it down shamelessly.  Each bite was better than the last, and in between sips of red wine the conversation picked up again: we covered the walk and each of our experiences so far based on how far we’d come and how many days it’d been, then talked a good bit about the crazy weather and the annoying off-and-on rain of Galicia, and finally mentioned our plans after the trip and how we would try to explain to those back home what the experience was like.  It was a good time with lots of laughing and good food, and at the end, when all were stuffed and finished and ready to pass out in bed, the nice mother and daughter took our plates away and returned quickly with dessert: a halved peach on top of a ring of pineapple.  A delicious end to a great meal.  We then finished our wine by the fire and slept extremely well in our “real” beds.  “Best albergue on the Camino” we all agreed.  And it really was.  What a great night.

In the morning we woke up at 7:30 and packed our things and dressed for more rain.  I had forgotten that breakfast was included in the cost, so when I came to the living room and prepared to say goodbye, it was a very nice surprise to find the table completely set with giant, steaming mugs of coffee, champagne glasses of fresh orange juice, and plates of toast, muffins, butter, and jam.

I ate it all up and had seconds of both coffee and orange juice, and when I finished I remembered that I only needed to walk 15km.  I sat on the couch by the fire for a few minutes and said goodbye to everyone else as they put up their hoods and headed out into the rain.  When the sky finally broke and shown a bit of blue, I grabbed my things and gave a very sincere thank you and goodbye to the sweet mother and daughter and was on my way.  “Best albergue on the Camino.  Honest.”

Camino Day 10  4/15/12

9:24 PM

Yesterday was good.  Left the Best Albergue on the Camino and hit the road, nice and slow.  With only 15 km til my planned stopping point, I took it easy and made time to inspect the little, so-often-over looked things along the way.  Every tree was different, I noticed; every flower, every leaf, every rock beneath my aching feet.  The rain cycles continued off and on all morning--a nice shower every 15 minutes or so—and at the end of each burst, the sound of the dripping forest as the bright, warm sun shown through the green, full canopy was awe-inspiring.  Sensory overload—the natural kind.

This slow, observant walk on this particular morning cemented something very powerful inside me that I hope to carry with me for the rest of my days.  Scott and I had talked about it thoroughly over our three intense days together, but on this morning I experienced it truly, naturally, and consciously for the first time.  Buddha would say I was finally Awake; Lao Tzu, the great teacher of Taoism that I’ve grown close to over the past year or so, would say I was being Mindful.  Others would say I was Aware.  In any case, I've never felt more Alive in my whole life.

On that walk that morning, I controlled my every breath—tuned it with the breath of the trees and the forest and the whole world before me.  My every sense was on full alert, capable of honing in deeply—with all my energy and focus—on any one particular sound, sight, smell, and touch.  Instead of looking, I was seeing; instead of hearing, I was listening; instead of touching, I was feeling.  Every leaf, every bug, every bird, every stone. 

Every thing around me—perceivably living or not—was alive on this morning, and for once I felt myself alive too.  It was a very powerful feeling, indeed, but altogether pure and incredibly natural.  I was most surprised at how easily it came to me, though: the slower I walked and the less I tried, the easier it came--the more I felt alive in my world.

Everything came together and made perfect sense for me, and within this deep understanding of the world I was feeling--seemingly being downloaded to my conscious from some strange, mysterious server--the word cycle continued to pop up—both in my mind and the world around me.  It has to rain like this in April so that everything can Spring in May so that grass and trees and fruits and vegetables—all sources of food for other forms of life—can grow and prosper during Summer, then be harvested in the Fall, and Winter is the end but also the beginning, because from the ashes of the past year sprout next year’s generation.  I know this isn’t a new idea by any means (we’ve all seen The Lion King), but it hit me so profoundly during this walk.  There were other examples, too, and overall I was left feeling very connected to the world around me, and I came away with this overwhelming realization that we all come from the same root: I am as much an ant as I am a human; an ant is as much a leaf as he is a bird; a tree is as much a termite as it is a river.  I know it sounds a little crazy, but it felt so true and so real at the time.  Everything was all of a sudden alive and living together in perfect sync, living with and along aside everything else.  This feels like a dream I kept telling myself, and it really, really did.  After taking it all in for a few, slow minutes, I finally came to the conclusion that instead of “Livin’ the dream" like I like to so proudly say I am, I was living IN the dream.  What a wonderful experience it was.

So enough with the hippy stuff right?  My walk was good and I continued taking my time like this the rest of the day, drifting in and out of this dream state as my mind came and went from the present moment to that old habit of reminiscing about the past and wishing for the future.  I made it to the final albergue before Santiago--the one on top of the famous Monte de Gozo (Mountain of Joy), which overlooks the city and gives the pilgrim his first sight of the cathedral.  Check it out:

When I got to my bunk and set down my things, I laid down and just closed my eyes and ended up dozing off for about an hour.  When I woke up and checked my watch, I put my shoes on and walked down the road to the market and picked out some things for dinner: pasta, tomato sauce, spinach, green beans, cookies, beer, and a giant brick of white chocolate—one of the best impulse-buys of my life.  When I got back to the albergue, my two friends that I met earlier in the trip—Anna from Germany and Soren (or something French like that) from France—were just checking in.  Seeing as I had way too much food to eat by myself, I invited them to join me.  They had met some guys along the walk that day who had offered the same, so we decided to just make a huge dinner and all eat together.  Awesome.  So around 7, myself, Anna, Soren, Stefan from Holland, Carlos and Guillermo from Madrid, and some weird, older guy from the Canary Islands with a name I never quite understood, took over the kitchen and whipped up the most glorious pasta dinner ever.  We had a straight feast, I tell you, and afterwards, since it was basically the last night of the trip, everybody pulled out the extra bottle of wine they had and we drank into the night.  It was a ton of fun and extremely interesting to just listen to the conversation as it bounced around so many different languages and mixed together across all the different cultures.  Fascinating, it really was.  I, again, played more of the passive, observant role as I tend to do, but I chimed in when I needed to and represented America well I think.  We went to bed around midnight, and after chugging three bottles of water to balance things out, I fell asleep instantly and woke up this morning to the usual zips and clicks and squeaks...

Camino Day 11  4/16/12

2:46 PM

So I made it here to Santiago yesterday, and I have to say, it was a day of mixed emotions.

But first, this was the climactic walk in:

"I can see it!"

Pilgrimage complete!

I was happy of course to finally make it to Santiago, but the satisfaction was definitely clouded by the fact that my wonderful Camino had come to an end.  Still, when I arrived at the cathedral early yesterday morning, after finishing off the last 4 km of the journey, I was overcome with a supreme sense of joy and accomplishment that can be summed up with I can’t believe I really did it.  I took pictures and did all the necessary tourist stuff, then headed off to find the Compostela Office—the building where every pilgrim receives their official diploma/certificate written in Latin proving that they made it to the cathedral.  The process was easy and I was in and out in a rather anticlimactic few minutes.  Check it out:

the man himself

So after that I wandered around the city for a few hours and checked out the many side streets and coffee shops and souvenir stands.  At 11:30 I made my way back to the cathedral and filed in behind the hundreds of other people in time for noon Mass.   I found a pew off to the side about 10 rows back, and sat and watched patiently as the rows filled up and the latecomers found places to stand at the back.

I sat through the entire ceremony and followed along with the preacher/minister/priest's well-pronounced Spanish, and the whole time I focused with all my energy on the words and ideas coming from this man’s mouth.  When the congregation stood to pray the first time, I followed accordingly so as not to be disrespectful, but my feet and legs were still very sore and I sat down again at the first opportunity.  The next time everyone stood I was the only one to stay seated, and every time after that (there are so many ups and downs in the Catholic church!) I did the same.  I was not only the lone sitter in my row, but also the only one I could see around me as I scanned the thick crowd.  I felt a bit weird about it but since I’m not Catholic and was only there as a formality of the pilgrimage, I felt none bad about it and continued to pay my respect by listening carefully and looking engaged.  When Communion was called, I was one of twenty or so people from my side of the church that didn’t get in line.  Again, I was very much okay with this, but self-consciousness definitely set in a bit as I felt like the outcast.  When donations were taken, I kept my wallet in my pocket and smiled at the lady shaking the change pouch before me, and then again when every one kneeled down onto the red velvet pew where my feet were, I continued to just sit and listen.

At the end of it all, the moment I had been looking forward to the whole time finally arrived: the giant censor hanging from an elaborate pulley system over the center of the church was lowered and lit, and with a few hard heaves of the rope, necessitating all the strength of the other seven men in white robes, the silver ornament was swung from side to side, first starting low, then gradually higher and higher until almost touching the ceiling as it swung to each side.   The closing ceremony is a famous ritual on Sundays here at the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela, and its roots reach back to the beginning days of the pilgrimage when the dirty, smelly, 30-days-unbathed pilgrims were allowed to sleep in the cathedral upon arrival. The incense smelled nice but very strong, and I was surprised at how the rest of the congregation reacted to this climactic ending: all of a sudden the cathedral was turned into some stage of entertainment as camera flashes exploded from all over and people stepped over each other to get a good view and a good shot of the spectacle.  It was all very interesting indeed, but it seemed a bit played out—a bit too Hollywood for me.  Afterwards, when it was over and I had taken my pictures, I was one of the first ones out the door.  No more for me, please.

After Mass, I wandered around the city for a few long hours, just strolling along drinking cheap, strong coffee and enjoying the first sunny day in a while.  Around 6 o'clock I headed over to the old hotel adjacent to the cathedral, where my teacher had told me they give out free dinner to pilgrims on their first night in the city.  As the rule goes and has gone for many, many years, the first ten pilgrims to show up for dinner at 7, diploma in hand, are allowed free entrance and free dinner.  I showed up at 6 and waited the full hour until 7, and around 6:45, when there were 9 of us in total, a well-dressed man came outside and walked us around to the parking garage out back—the official meeting place of the fabled pilgrim’s dinner.  After checking our Compostelas and passports, he walked us through a backdoor entrance into the hotel, past the laundry room and cleaning supplies, up a dirty, dimly-lit staircase, and finally into the big kitchen where they make all of the hotel restaurant's food.  There, we were given a tray, a bowl of basically chicken broth and bread, a plate of salad and tortilla (traditional Spanish potato dish), two rings of pineapple for dessert, and a tall glass of wine in a heavy glass.  After filling our trays, the nine of us were led up another set of stairs to a small, secret-feeling dining room with one, iron-barred window where we were told we had one hour to finish and return our trays.  I sat at a table with a Dutch guy and his Filipino wife and we struck up a decent conversation about soccer, of course.  The meal was good but not too filling, and at the end we returned our trays and said thank you to the “chef."  I said goodbye to the motley couple and was on my way.

As I was tired and thinking ahead to my early rise the next morning, I started off across town to my albergue.  On the way, I passed by the cathedral and noticed that the side door was open, so I made my way past the beggars and entered as quietly as I could.  Inside I found an evening Mass in session, with an old white man with white hair in a white robe talking at the front.  Instead of sitting through that whole thing again, I quietly walked around the pews and made my way along the wall and took flash-less pictures of the elaborate architecture and impressive shrines.  Check it out:

the place is very pretty, but has bad lighting for pictures

Near the back, behind where the preacher was speaking, I found a small door with the following words inscribed in black lettering against a red cross: TOMB OF SAINT JAMES.  I of course pushed open the half-closed door and stepped inside.  This is what I found:

I kneeled on the red velvet pew looking into the tomb and indulged in a moment of silence, then said goodbye to the reason my journey was possible and exited the cathedral as quietly as I came.  Back at the albergue, I packed my things carefully and snuggly in my pack and set my alarm for when it's still dark outside...

4/16/12

I woke up this morning just a few minutes before 6, packed away the rest of my things, checked and double checked that I had my passport and boarding pass, then took my wet, crumpled map of the city and made my way by the light of the stars and streetlights to the bus stop a few blocks away.  The bus pulled around the corner right on time, and the ride to the airport was a calm thirty minutes.  The airport, though, was quite the opposite…

The walking stick that Scott gave me on our last day together was the first problem: even though my backpack could barely pass for carry-on luggage, I still had to wait in the long, horribly slow line just so the counter-girl could slap an orange sticker on my baston and wish me a good flight.  Que pena! (What a pain!) This long, stupid delay set me back a solid half hour, and afterwards, when I could finally move on to the security section, there was another hold up—this time much more serious…

The line for the metal detector was just as long and slow-moving as the first, and when it was my turn to go through, I proceeded with the protocol: bag on the conveyor; shoes, belt, jacket in the plastic tub; hands by my sides, wait for permission to pass through.  My body made it through with no problems, but my bag…not so much.  I watched as it smoothly rolled through the X-ray machine, but my heart stopped as it suddenly went in reverse, back down the tunnel, then through again in time with the operator standing up to motion for assistance.  Oh wow, what have I done now?!

“Who’s bag is this?” asked the officer, scanning the people at the front of the line.

“Es mio,” I answered as another guard pulled it aside onto a table.

The operator asked me to lean over the conveyor belt to look at the X-ray screen.

“What is this?” he asked, pointing to a small, black rectangle among the cords and bright objects and masses of clothes.

I told him I didn’t know, and he promptly asked for me to dig through my bag and find it.  I did as I was told and begrudgingly rummaged through my tightly stuff bag.  After a good minute with nothing to show for it, I told the impatient guard I couldn’t find it and he sighed and called over another man to look at the screen.

A full search would be necessary.

Two men carried away my bag and asked me to follow them to a table closed off behind a wall.

“Take everything out,” he commanded in Spanish.

I groaned and explained as best I could that I had done a perfect packing job and that I had nothing dangerous in my bag and that we would find nothing.

He of course insisted.

So I yanked out all of my folded underwear, perfectly rolled shorts, my sleep sack and the pair of flipflops at the bottom.  Nothing.  The officer stuck his hand inside and felt that it was empty, then proceeded to unzip the pocket on top.

“You'll find nothing but sweaty socks in there—you really don’t want to open that pocket.”

But he did anyway, and low and behold, underneath the horrible stench of a week’s worth of hiking, he pulled out a small black pouch the size of a wallet.

“Well then what is this?”

The flap of the pouch read KA BAR in grey stitching, and my whole body tensed up.  I took the pouch from him and opened it up to show him:  “See—all it is is a spoon and a fork.  You use it for camping.”

The man took it from me and examined it closely.  He unfolded the spoon on one side, then the fork on the other, but then from the middle section, as I didn't even know was possible, he pried open a knife blade about 5 inches long.

“Nothing dangerous, huh?”

My eyes grew wide and I assumed the honest-mistake look.  I had totally forgotten that I had thrown that stupid thing in my pack in the first place, but more than that, I had no idea that it had a knife at all!

“Seriously, I had no idea.  Honest.  I’m really sorry—you can take it if you need to.”

“Well of course I have to take it—you need to be careful with the things you put in your bag.”

He nodded and carried the knife away, leaving me to stare at my spilled over bag and the mess I had created.  And right then, to make matters worse, a loud announcement in very fast Spanish rang out over the airport intercom: “Flight 3226 to Valencia, LAST CALL.”  I went into panic mode and scooped up my reaking clothes and threw them in my bag.

“Am I free to go?” I called back to the man, now huddled around the other guards, showing them his find.

“Si, si. Go.”

I clipped my bag shut and swung it onto my back and ran off to find my terminal.  The departure board overhead told me to find Gate 17, and next to it, the words LAST CALL were blinking red.  Oh my god, I’m going to miss my flight!  I literally ran through the airport, zooming in and out of everyone in front of me: like something out of a movie, I was that guy—the pathetic mess in a frenzy to catch his flight.

As luck would have it though, the gates were ordered backwards starting with 20, so 17 wasn’t too far to go.  I got in line behind the other three late-arrivers, handed my boarding pass to the girl, and took a deep breath as I squeaked through down the tunnel as the gate closed behind me.  A close call to say the least.

So I made it on board and took one of the last remaining seats near the back, on the aisle.  The flight was an hour and a half long, and when we got to Valencia, I picked up my stick from baggage claim and was on my way.

And now here I am, back in my room, on my bed, looking out onto the balcony, listening to the soothing Sunday streets below.  A few parades have gone by in honor of the final days of Semana Santa, and all in all, it feels really good to be “home.”  It’s a bit weird at the same time, though, to be back in this room.  Did I ever leave? Was the whole Camino just a dream?

Yes and no.