An ignoble entrance into Santiago de Compostela
I wish I could say I had a glorious, pious entry into Santiago de Compostela on our last day of walking, but I'm not quite sure I did. After reaching the square the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela calls home--the end of the pilgrimage!--I met back up with the rest of our group and we found the location of the daily Pilgrim's Mass, which was located in a different church in the city thanks to the cathedral's ongoing renovations.
Twenty minutes before 12 p.m., the church was packed, and we couldn't find seats--hardly the kind of welcome a walking-worn pilgrim expects at her destination. Still, though, the church was beautiful, even if Baroque architecture and all of its accompanying gold flashiness aren't really my style. At 12, music began. But it was not the solemn, soaring chanting I'd expected; instead, it involved an acoustic guitar and lots of clapping on the part of the congregation. My Protestant heart felt betrayed: where was all the Catholic pomp and circumstance I've been missing out on since I last attended Mass in second grade, when I was still a student at the local Catholic school in my hometown?
15 minutes and zero comprehension of the Spanish being spoken during the service later, I decided to leave Mass early in favor of making my way to the pilgrim's office to receive my compostela, or the certificate declaring that I did indeed complete the pilgrimage.
Later in the day, after having received the certificate, I felt detached from it and the medieval illustrations gracing its glossy surface. Sure, I care about it and would be saddened if it didn't make it home in one piece with me, but the piece of paper I feel much more emotionally attached to is my pilgrim's passport. It made the 115 kilometer journey with me and bore witness to the rain, wind, and various cafes and churches I encountered along the way. That is the document that feels like an accomplishment--not the certificate.
If the German man we met on the train to Sarria's rendition of "Take Me Home, Country Roads" was the perfect entrance into the liminal space that is the Camino, then everything about Santiago de Compostela was a fitting exit. Once I was in the city, walking along with my backpack and hiking shoes, I sensed a shift in the space I was in, even though I was still on the Camino. Other pedestrians were less likely to say "Hola" to me; on the Camino's country backroads, nearly everyone said hi to each other, pilgrim or not. I was back in the real world, and it was a weird feeling, one that I'm still working through. Perhaps the anticlimax of Pilgrim's Mass and my compostela was perfect after all.
Twenty minutes before 12 p.m., the church was packed, and we couldn't find seats--hardly the kind of welcome a walking-worn pilgrim expects at her destination. Still, though, the church was beautiful, even if Baroque architecture and all of its accompanying gold flashiness aren't really my style. At 12, music began. But it was not the solemn, soaring chanting I'd expected; instead, it involved an acoustic guitar and lots of clapping on the part of the congregation. My Protestant heart felt betrayed: where was all the Catholic pomp and circumstance I've been missing out on since I last attended Mass in second grade, when I was still a student at the local Catholic school in my hometown?
15 minutes and zero comprehension of the Spanish being spoken during the service later, I decided to leave Mass early in favor of making my way to the pilgrim's office to receive my compostela, or the certificate declaring that I did indeed complete the pilgrimage.
Later in the day, after having received the certificate, I felt detached from it and the medieval illustrations gracing its glossy surface. Sure, I care about it and would be saddened if it didn't make it home in one piece with me, but the piece of paper I feel much more emotionally attached to is my pilgrim's passport. It made the 115 kilometer journey with me and bore witness to the rain, wind, and various cafes and churches I encountered along the way. That is the document that feels like an accomplishment--not the certificate.
If the German man we met on the train to Sarria's rendition of "Take Me Home, Country Roads" was the perfect entrance into the liminal space that is the Camino, then everything about Santiago de Compostela was a fitting exit. Once I was in the city, walking along with my backpack and hiking shoes, I sensed a shift in the space I was in, even though I was still on the Camino. Other pedestrians were less likely to say "Hola" to me; on the Camino's country backroads, nearly everyone said hi to each other, pilgrim or not. I was back in the real world, and it was a weird feeling, one that I'm still working through. Perhaps the anticlimax of Pilgrim's Mass and my compostela was perfect after all.
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