As he looked up at the tall steeples of the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, my father shed a few tears. My father’s tears likely seemed to the average onlooker to be no more than any other pilgrim’s upon seeing the magnificent cathedral after traveling hundreds of miles. However, I was aware that those tears were for the dream that had been brewing for more than 40 years and had finally materialized.
I’ve spent my whole life listening to my father discuss his ambition of finishing the historic journey that traces the same route that one of Jesus’ twelve apostles, St. James, took thousands of years ago. Not barely half a mile from the location of the house where my father was born, the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela is where St. James is buried. The Camino de Santiago is made up of many pathways that all lead to this location. And my dad finally got to “walk home” at 64, as he phrased it.
In 31 days, he walked over 600 kilometers from France to Spain, and I might add that he did it with ease. It was my privilege to accompany him for the last five days. He went all over my 23-year-old self, and it wasn’t easy. I’m a talker, as anyone who knows me knows, but my dad didn’t teach me that. Even though he doesn’t say much, he always connects with me and my younger brothers the most when we are doing something together. I had the opportunity to observe the world through his eyes for a few days. I will always remember the experience of witnessing him accomplish something so significant while also accomplishing something of my own.
Three adjectives that best describe the Camino are camaraderie, suffering, and tranquility. As soon as they set foot on the centuries-old trail, pilgrims, or peregrinos, exchange the stresses of everyday life for relaxation.
Despite the excruciating agony I had and the sometimes-unavoidable stench of cows, there was something so soothing about the simplicity of getting up early and spending the day strolling through Spanish villages and countryside. By day one, following a 14.5-mile stretch to begin the adventure, I had four blisters and was limping for the majority of the final four miles or so to our destination due to severe pain in my feet, ankles, and knees. Nothing changed the following day, and as the week progressed, it grew worse.
Something I didn’t consider before embarking on the trip is that the walking doesn’t actually end once you complete the miles that make up the stage you’re walking that day. You still have to walk to your hostel, to restaurants for lunch and dinner and in our case, as practicing Catholics, to Mass each night at the local cathedrals. The suffering was intense and often the only thing I could focus on during my walks, but I chose to turn each step into a form of wordless prayer and in return learned that when you think your body can’t be pushed any further, it can. Pedro, a man from Barcelona walking with his daughter Cristina, never failed to remind me this on the days he walked with us. “When you think the tank is empty, you really still have 40% left,” he’d say to me in a mix of Spanish and broken English with a self-rolled cigarette dangling from his mouth. They were just two of the people I was lucky to meet and befriend along the way out of the hundreds of people who came from every corner of the earth to experience the Camino. It was remarkable to see people of all ages completing the hike some for the first time and others for the eighth time. I walked just under 100 miles to reach Santiago de Compostela, and in a lot of ways, this trip served as a final, uninterrupted moment with my dad before my life completely changes.
Be the first to comment