Feeling good in Santiago

So often for me everything seems to fall into place at the end of a trip, and I experience a near perfect sense of well-being and satisfaction. That´s what I felt this afternoon sitting on a bench in a lovely green park in Santiago, where the city people take their paseos on wide gravel paths. Not that my trip is quite over, but the main part is done, and now I´m on to a couple bonus parts.

I left Muxia at 7:30 this morning via bus. Strange to be moving at such a speed after weeks of the more reasonable walking pace. Once in Santiago I walked from the bus station to Acuario Albergue, my last albergue. A pretty Spanish woman wearing lots of make-up took my credencial and wrote my name in her book. Incense was burning and the radio was playing Spanish pop music. The walls were brightly colored and draped with hangings, one dominated by large printed pot leaves. A hippy refuge. The woman walked me to the connected dormitorio, a dog-legged room with twenty-five or so bunkbeds, and chose an upper for me. Nearly all the beds were already taken. As I unpacked she took up a broom to sweep, singing along to a song on the radio.

After a little time on the single, unoccupied computer (again, everything was going my way), I walked into the old city, around the cathedral on already familiar streets to the tourist office. I got a map and walked down through busier and newer streets to the train station. There I found that a train left for Palencia at nine the next morning, and that I could make a connection in Palencia for Espinosa and arrive in plenty of time for dinner. After this great good luck I wandered through the city--which is maybe my favorite, right up there with Leon--and ended up on the bench at the park at the foot of a venerable eucalyptus.

I slept well last night, but at first my rest was in question. The man who had the upper bunk above me showed up only after dark, so I never saw him. I did sense, though, that he was smallish and middle-aged--and I could hear that he was Italian. As soon as he climbed up into his bed he started whispering to himself. At first this seemed maybe just a pre-bedtime conversation, maybe a companionable way to finish off the day. Nothing wrong with talking to one´s self, if one doesn´t go on too long. But it soon became apparent that his mutterings expressed not pleasantries but dissatisfaction, and not with himself: he did not like the snoring that was going on nearby. Now, this was strange to me. Muxia is at the end of the Camino for most people, meaning the communal sleep situation should be old hat. I´ve long been broken in to the snoring, which has been a feature of nearly every night. I don´t have a problem with it anymore; I can sleep through it. So for someone to be so annoyed and worked up about the night noise... I just didn´t get it. But the man did succeed in communicating a certain unpleasant tension.

After a few minutes of complaining in whispers to himself, the man began to talk louder--as if this would help? Then he loudly shushed a man snoring three bunkbeds over. To my surprise the snoring paused--but only for a moment. Then the rather high pitched sawing recommenced, each breath finished off with a short emphatic grumble. The man above me spoke out loud again, appealing to the dark in his indignation. Then he fell to angry mutterings. By this time I was getting uncomfortable. The snoring I could handle, but this man´s frustration was harder to sleep through. I thought he might get down and go over to interrupt the snorer´s sleep. Maybe things would get ugly. But he stayed in his bed and stuck with the muttering and complaining, tossing in a few more loud and useless shushes. Eventually I´m gusessing he accepted his fate, since he fell quiet and I fell asleep. And like I said, I slept well.

From the park I took my map and wandered the town, finding out all the large stone churches and convents, and walking up and down the narrowest streets. I poked into a number of souvenir shops but could find nothing worth buying for the folks back home. When traveling I am incapable of shopping; nothing ever looks remotely interesting.

In the Cafe Dakar I re-discovered that a tortilla is sometimes an omelette, not the tortilla de patata I´d expected. Still, I ate with good appetite, and drank a glass of beer.

By evening the city had become more interesting than ever. People filled the tables outside cafes, and hordes of small children ran about in the streets; a wedding spilled out of a church, and a large group of people in long black robes and pointy black hats went past carrying instruments, mostly bagpipes and drums. In the cathedral evening mass was in progress, and I went in to once more admire the giant angels holding up the golden roof over the head of St. James and over the altar below. Outside in a covered passage beside the cathedral two people played violin; nearby two men played clarinet and guitar together. In the Praza Praterias on the sotuh side of the cathedral, a man and a woman in black and yellow performed a song and dance and juggling act. They did a gymnastic number to a song from Dirty Dancing. When they were done another performer took up in the nearby Praza Quintana, entertaining the kids with funny hats and balloon animals and ring tossing....

In the Praza Obradoiro, on the front side of the cathedral, bands of peregrinos loitered, talking to each other and gazing up at the spires. Just as I had with my own group of pilgrims a week ago. All day long I saw people with backpacks around town, but they were all strange to me. Not a single familiar face. But more than once I saw these people recognize their own Camino frinds and fall on each other´s necks. Just as my own group had a week ago. All day long I was loving Santiago, but I also came to feel it was time to go.

Yesterday in Muxia I was sitting outside the tourist office waiting for it to open, when an old and heavy-set German man hobbled up and sat down beside me with a great sigh. We remained silent for a few minutes, and then he offered me a cookie from a white plastic bag. He said he had just bought them at the panaderia. I said no at first, and he said are you sure, and I said, ok, yes, I will have one. I´d seen him moving slowly along the path outside Corcubion a few days before, one of those people who seem to get along on desire more than physical strength. There in Muxia he told me that he had come all the way from Roncesvalles. I don´t know how long it took him, but I would guess some long time. When the office opened we both went in and got our credencials stamped. The old man shook the Spanish man´s hand and said now he was done. Tomorrow, he said, he would take a train east. In a couple days he planned to be back in Roncesvalles, and to start walking the Camino once again.