Gro and I started our last walk together pretty early, at 6:00. Because of the horde of people pushing toward Santiago, it felt more like a soap opera than a hike. Torture. Like the last school lesson before summer break. After ten days of being together, all it took was a look between us—no words needed—to know it was time to release the handbrake and enter the athletic discipline of super-G slalom through slow hikers. Enough suffering—just full throttle to the hostel. At the start of the walk, Gro had bet on herself that she’d finish the Camino in twelve days, but “unfortunately” she ran into me and ended up arriving in Santiago a day too early. She had imagined the end of her Camino like the movie The Way, in a hotel room, with a bathtub full of bubbles, a comfy bed, and a glass of good wine. But not today—that’ll happen tomorrow. So she was forced to spend one more night in a pilgrim hostel.
I took her to the hostel I stay at every year when I arrive in Santiago. It’s at the city’s entrance and a good 4 km from the cathedral. Far from the noise, where you still feel like you’re on the trail. The hostel has a big garden surrounded by peaceful silence. The owner, Dani, has over the years become my friend. Every year, one day before I arrive in Santiago, I call him to let him know I’m coming. He gives me the entrance code before the place is officially open to hikers, when the cleaning lady still reigns supreme and the place needs to be tidied up for the next parachuters finishing their walk. The cleaning lady and I? Water and fire. No idea why she hates me. I always greet her politely when I arrive. I always take off my shoes before entering the hostel because I respect everyone’s work. But she would still rather hang me from the gallows. Before Gro and I got there, I warned her that we might have a problem with the cleaner. She laughed—what kind of problem could you possibly have with a cleaning lady?
An hour later, we were hiding from her in the hostel, because she had shouted at us right upon arrival, like “what are you doing here?” Since the lady doesn’t speak English, I tried to explain via Google Translate that Dani had given us permission to enter before the hostel opened. I was shredding her nerves, and if nervousness made money, she’d be a millionaire. We didn’t want her to have a heart attack, since she wasn’t exactly a spring chicken anymore, so we headed to the cathedral, where nearby is the pilgrims’ office where they issue your certificate for completing the walk. Honestly, I didn’t care about that piece of paper, but Gro wanted it framed on her wall at home. Because it was still the time of Covid—meaning extra caution around crowds—we had to download an app, scan a QR code, and it gave you a number in the queue. We were somewhere around number 300, so we decided to go have fun in a bar while we waited for our turn. As it often happens, the best ideas come over beer, and we decided that next year we’d walk the Camino Frances together. A few years ago, Gro had done just a few stages of that route because she didn’t have enough time off, and me—as you already know—I’d walked more than half of it with crippled legs. So I had a retake exam waiting. The first one in my life that I was actually excited for. When we finally got our certificates, we went for an amazing dinner and said our goodbyes. I didn’t feel like staying in Santiago—I wanted to continue as soon as possible toward Finisterre, since I had more than enough time. She, as you know, had a hotel room booked.
The farewell was bitter, but we sweetened it by stopping at nearly every bar on the way back to the hostel, partying like it was our last evening together—because it was. When we finally got back to the hostel late at night, ready to iron out the bed, I hugged her, planted a kiss on her cheek like a stamp on a postcard, and thanked her for this epic journey.
Our night ended with the sentence: “See you next summer.”
