All roads lead to Santiago right in front of the St. Jacob Cathedral. The odyssey concludes there. The square is full of hikers that managed to reach the destination. Some of them look like they just came from a horrible battle, while others look like Virgin Mary appeared. The third kind looks like they’ve seen E.T. Then there are the tourists who took a bus or a car. The square is infested with street vendors selling souvenirs, and street musicians. The city is full of bars, restaurants and shops. Noise and money live there, a circus I never really cared for. Back to capitalism! Hikers don’t get a red carpet for their achievements here.
Santiago never gave me an “orgasm” – those come on the Path. Santiago is that guy that says “I think I could spend the rest of my life with you” after sex. Sir, do you still have that black gun? That’s why all the good things happen before you reach the “confessional” (read: cathedral).
I’d be a liar if I told you I didn’t cry a bit the first year I reached the destination. But I cried because I was too stubborn to call it quits when my body was in a painful agony. Some people told me Tina and I won’t even reach the start, let alone the finish. We shut those pieholes, haven’t we? Although they were probably just teasing.
Anyway, I booked one hour of my time for a confession that year. It’s pretty cool: there’s a priest that only speaks English and Spanish, but you tell him your sins in your mother’s tongue. He’s spaced out anyway, smiling into his phone. There are eight confessionals in the cathedral and I skipped all of them the last two years. What is life without a sin and je ne regrette rien.
It’s the journey, not the destination.
The plan for this year was to reach Santiago early in the morning, when the city is still asleep, have a coffee and catch a bus to the End of the World (Finisterre). But plans change as you go along. I did catch a bus, but I did it the next morning with a head-splitting hangover, the first one on the Path. It would be a shame if I walked the last 30 kilometers without Angus and Albi. The journey would be dull without them. “G’mornin,” we said the last evening before Santiago when we were dining in a guesthouse. The Potato Lovers Club would applaud the amazing mashed potato, and don’t get me started on the lovely and tender meat. The night was absolutely joyful as I was accompanied by mosquitoes who apparently love beer drinkers. I clapped my hands all night for them.
As expected, we fucked the original plan in the morning – the plan being up and ready by six. In your dreams! We had a wonderful breakfast, scrambled eggs and bacon. If the cook fucked anything up after the money we spent on his ass, it would be his last day on this planet. Well, we weren’t that cross about the price, since it was our last day walking. Angus’s digestion was excellent that morning. He came drenched in sweat when he returned from the toilet and let me say, the lavatory did not smell of eucalyptus. Since it was a unisex toilet and I really had to go, I crossed myself and prayed a quick one to survive the endeavor. I was out before you could read the entire obituary. Before we set of he said: “It’s gonna be a great day.” “Shut up, the day hasn’t even started yet,” I said with a smile.
We felt like champions after the morning ritual. We were quick on our feet, taking over everyone. The Path felt like a can of sardines. Trapped! It was so crowded we wanted to reach the destination as soon as possible. But we did need a pit-stop for a cup of coffee. The dishwasher broke down, so the waiter had a great challenge ahead of him: 50 dirty coffee cups and a bunch of disappointed coffee-craving guests. So we ordered beer. You can’t say you’ve been drinking all day if you don’t start early in the morning. The drinker’s wisdom. Then, the place filled with a smell of cesspit and you can’t enjoy beer if it smells like shit. We downed it and ran to the next bar. It was like a Scottish tour-de-bar, one of the hardest. When the alcohol starts flowing, you become your own worst enemy. I really hope the waiter survived that day.
Like I said, don't count your chickens before they're hatched, and don’t praise your husband before death. We finally reached the albergo blitzed blind when Angus realized the flight home he had booked was actually from Dublin to Santiago, and not the other way around. His happy hour was over in a second. It’s one of those moments you are not supposed to laugh out loud, but you’re bursting inside. And don’t even think about asking something like “What the fuck were you thinking when you wanted to book a flight home, drunk as a sailor?” Imagine an Irishman, who usually has an excellent sense of humor, fuming with rage and telling you: “Fuck off, leave me alone and let me deal with this bullshit.” Simple, right? Just leave, find a bar, and send him the location. Alas, beer tends to murder my senses, so I managed to make an ATM eat my bank card. I mean, I did smash the card into the slot like Hulk. So I had to survive on 25 euros from Friday to Monday. And Friday barely started, let alone the weekend in the End of the World. FUCK ME! Well, as I mentioned, all the men on Camino are gentlemen, so Filipe lend me 60 euros to make it to Monday. But since Tina loves to pay for her drinks, those sixty euros were gone the very same evening. If you think I remember that evening, you’re wrong. I ran out of tape.
I had to pull myself together quickly the next morning, as I promised Simon a goodbye coffee near the main bus station. My body parts were shattered all over the distance between the cathedral and the albergo. The poor hamster that runs my brain was obviously blotto in some watering hole, so I left the albergo in my flip-flops without my pink trainers. Thank you hamster, for skidding off road. I had to say goodbye to Angus really quick that morning and I know he’ll remember me. I kissed him before he left with the breath of the previous night. It smelled like crematorium.
I embarked on a tedious three-hour bus ride an hour later, all the way to Finisterre. Coffee and cigarettes are bad news for your empty stomach. I could sleep, but I did Kegel’s exercises instead.