The reason that I find it so difficult to complete my account of these last months is that I am stuck on April. And the reason that I am stuck on April is that I had one of the most incredible experiences of my life, and describing it, why it was what it was, isn’t easy. But as I won’t be able to move on until I recount this event, I will do my best, in a brief way, so I can move on.
April 3rd was the day we left for Sarria. I had my bag on my back, filled with a sleeping bag, sleeping pad, flashlight, anti-blister band aids, chocolate, and two pairs of clothes for the next five days. I met with my fellow exchange friends of Santiago for some Turkish Kepab, all with our gear, and we enjoyed our food at one of our favorite places to eat in Santiago.
What we were headed to do was a piece of El Camino de Santiago, a famous pilgrimage which traditionally starts near France in Pyrenees Mountains and continues across the entire Iberian Peninsula to Santiago de Compostela, my second home town. It is a religious pilgrimage, or was, but now I believe most of the people that set out along its paths do so for the experience, not because of a strong Catholic faith. People from all parts of the world come to Spain to do the Camino. The city is filled with pilgrims all year round, although in summer the numbers rise so that there are more pilgrims in the city than locals. The tourist shops are filled with souvenirs for El Camino, and some places offer free breakfasts for newly arriving pilgrims. It is the biggest tourist industry of Santiago, the reason that it is famous, and one of my features of the city. You can recognize a pilgrim easily by his comfy and worn clothes, by his muddy bicycle, or by the fact that he’s wearing sandals to give his feat some comfort after their tiring journey. Sandals are not as commonly worn in Spain as they are in the US, so it is a pretty reliable signal of their pilgrim status. You can have the most interesting conversation with a pilgrim; meet someone from a place you’ve only dreamed of going to.
If you began the Camino from the Pyrenees, you will be walking for one to two months before you reach Santiago. Every day you will probably walk between 20 and 30 kilometers, sometimes more, sometimes less. There are stretches of the Camino that you are required to walk much more before you reach the next hostel.
The stretch we would be doing would be about 125 kilometers, and we would do so in five days. This was an optional AFS activity, lead my monitors hired by AFS to accompany us. Even though it was optional, all but one of the 30 exchange students in Galicia was going. He would have liked to have gone also, but he had a family trip already planned.
So we were a group of forty. Thirty of us from Galicia, and another ten AFS students from other regions of Spain, as well as a couple host brothers and sisters. We were from all over the world, a group of people united by strange circumstances, acquaintances and close friends, heaped into one to embark on what we all knew would be a strenuous and deeply rewarding adventure.
So much for making this brief. I know I could write for hours about the Camino, and this is what has been stopping me. I want to do the experience justice with my description, but I think I had better get to the point otherwise be lost in an endless recount unable to ever finish.
We walked for four days, waking at six and leaving before darkness had faded. We saw the sunrise every morning. We stayed in hostels of three Euros a night. We ate breakfast hurriedly and set off after stuffing our sleeping bags and pulling on our dirty wet clothes.
We saw Galicia in its true and natural state, the mist-shrouded rolling green hills adorned by flowers of only purple and yellow color. The light rain in the morning usually gave way to a pleasant afternoon sun under which we would rest and sleep in the grass that we found by our hostel. We had all seen Galicia before, most of us lived there, but we had never really seen it. We had never really appreciated its beauty and its mystery until we had walked through it, looked at the place where we lived and understood it.
We were in pain. Some worse than others, but all of us felt it. Some so bad that their feet rejected every step and they hobbled and bled and cried but where determined to keep going. The hurt of giving up and getting a ride in that safe, warm, and comfortable taxi to the next hostel was much worse than any of the physical effects of the walk. So we all kept going, and we didn’t really know why. There was one day in particular that was bad. It was the longest. Our halfway meeting point was at the same distance that we would normally have ended the day and reached our hostel. We all felt it, even those in the best of shape with minimal blisters. At the last stretch, we were forced to ask ourselves what it was that kept us going, why we were doing this, and the answer for everyone was different. It did become a religious experience, not one necessarily related to god, but one more spiritual that looked inward at ourselves and our values. It changed every single one of us, had an effect that was unexplainable and plain to see.
When we did reach the hostel on that fourth day, one of us was fading in and out of consciousness and an ambulance had to be called. She had been carried part way by our dear friend and monitor, but could not give up even though she could not walk because of the blisters that had torn her feet to tatters. That night we worried and ate the dinner that one of the students had bought with his own money for us all, and then spent much time and talent to prepare. I and a few others met a pilgrim travelling with his guitar. We sang together until we were told the noise wasn’t allowing others to go to sleep.
Morning came and we were only left with five kilometers to reach the center of the city. Our friend had returned the last night with bandages and the same determination. She had to be forced to take a taxi.
The last kilometers were joyful. We were chatting, in good spirits with the sun shining down on us. We had had time to sleep in with such a small distance remaining.
When we were near to the end of the walk, we met our friend. She would do the final half kilometer with us, even though she needed the support of two people under her arms to walk. The son of our volunteer also joined us there. He had brought along his bagpipe. We stood around him and applauded his concert, then he started to walk and we followed. The last half kilometer of the Camino, we walked behind our bagpiper, with our injured friend in our arms, drawing recognition and congratulatory looks from passersby. It was like a victory march. At this point we were both somber and gleeful, celebrating our triumph and mourning the end of the journey. When we reached the Cathedral, after following the gold shells which marked the way through the ancient streets, we had reached the end. There were many hugs, most between people who five days ago had been mere acquaintances and had now bonded in a way so deep that I believe may be impossible to find anywhere else. There were also many tears, although joyful ones.
I had never been so moved by anything in my life. And I think that many of the other AFS students can say the same.
We shared the Camino and our exchange and we will never forget that or be able to break the ties that were built. Several people I talked to said that the week that we spent on the Camino was the best week of their lives.
So we have talked about getting together in the coming years and doing it again, this time in its entirety.

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