All roads lead to Santiago, straight to the mighty Cathedral of Saint James. It’s not hard to find – you just follow the stream of hikers, a sweaty, blistered, stubborn river of souls all flowing toward the same epicenter. Here the odyssey ends. The square swarms with people who’ve made it. Some look like they’ve just survived the Battle of Thermopylae, others gaze upward as if the Virgin Mary herself just descended, and a third group stares at the sky like they’ve spotted E.T. waving from his spaceship.
And then there are the tourists – those cheerful ladies and gents who arrived in Santiago by bus, car, or plane. Their shoes are spotless, socks smell of fresh fabric softener, and yes – they’re already clutching souvenirs before even stepping inside the cathedral. Meanwhile, we “real” pilgrims carry scars, blisters, and a smell that won’t leave our shirts even after three washes.
The square is flooded with souvenir sellers (because who doesn’t need another fridge magnet that will fall behind the freezer in a month) and buskers endlessly replaying Galician tunes until they stick in your brain like some detergent commercial. The city is bursting with bars, restaurants, and shops. Here rule noise, tourists, and money. Back to capitalism, back to the circus I never liked. If you thought a red carpet and a live orchestra would be waiting here to play We Are the Champions, sorry – wrong movie.
Santiago has never given me that “orgasm” some pilgrims claim to have when they collapse crying, hugging everyone like they’ve just climbed Everest. For me, Santiago is more like that guy who, after good sex, whispers: “I see my future with you forever.” And all you can think is: Sir, do you still have that black pistol?
I admit, my first year I did shed a tear. Not because of some transcendental revelation, but because I proved to myself I was stubborn enough not to quit – even while walking with pain worse than a marathon on hot coals. Torn ligaments in both legs didn’t stop me. Five hundred kilometers of agony. Back then, people at home said: “You and Tina won’t even make the start, let alone the finish.” Well, we shut them up. Maybe more by accident than intention, but still.
That first year I even did the romantic thing – went to confession. Sat nearly an hour in front of a priest who only spoke Spanish and English while I rattled off sins in Slovenian. He stared at his phone and chuckled like a teenager on TikTok. In the cathedral there are eight confessionals – a real “drive-in” system for sins. These days I skip that part. I don’t know how to live without sin, and honestly, I regret none of them.
For me it’s always been about the Road, not the end. Santiago is just the period at the end of the sentence, a nice historical frame for the journey. Sure, it deserves respect – after all, this is the place where in the 9th century someone claimed to discover the relics of Saint James. Biggest marketing coup of the Middle Ages. Thanks to that, Santiago became one of the top three pilgrimage centers in Europe, alongside Rome and Jerusalem.
And the numbers don’t lie: over 500,000 hikers arrive here every year. Half a million people voluntarily walk for weeks, blister their feet, drink suspicious wine in tiny villages, and sleep in dorms full of snorers – all to reach this cathedral. If that’s not a miracle, I don’t know what is.
But for me, nothing changes: Santiago isn’t the goal. It’s just a loud dot at the end. The real magic happens on the Road – where it’s just you, your legs, your head, the pain, and everything life dumps on you along the way.
And by the way, Santiago wouldn’t even be on the map without one medieval legend so outrageous it makes Marvel look boring. According to the story, after being martyred in Jerusalem, Saint James’s body somehow ended up in Galicia. How? His friends supposedly placed his corpse in a stone boat without sails or oars. This “miracle boat” floated by divine power (or maybe just a strong wind and a good storyteller) all the way across the Mediterranean, around Portugal, straight to Galicia. And just to spice it up for the movie version, a magical horse fell into the sea, climbed back out covered in shells – hence why the scallop shell became the Camino’s symbol.
So if you think your journey was full of miracles – trust me, compared to a corpse in a self-driving boat and a horse emerging from the waves like some medieval Aquaman, we’re all just amateurs.