Exit through the Gift Shop

The walk from Sarria to Santiago was slow. Not in the sense of tedious, nor in the sense of a peacefully flowing stream; it was slow in the sense of unhurried, painstaking, and deliberate. I woke up everyday knowing that my primary task for the day was to walk; that was my purpose and my full-time job; that was the reason I was here. Discuss and Eat. Sleep. Walk. I was surprised and relieved to find how easily I worked into this pattern— how soon my mind relaxed—how natural it felt to concern myself almost entirely with food, sleep,  and the next step. The slow progression forbade me from whizzing by the cities, villages, and shops along the way; it insisted that I notice the flowers protruding from the crevices of stone walls—that I smell the eucalyptus leaves blowing in the breeze. It demanded I take in. I gave to it physical comfort and it gave back so much beauty—a fair exchange. With every step (and there were many many steps in the 60+ miles of walking), I became increasingly a part of the path. My story and worries and aches mixed with the worries and stories and aches of the many who have walked before me and of those who walked beside me. Conrad Rudolph addresses this sense of belonging to the path and the path belonging to the pilgrim. He argues staunchly in Pilgrimage to the End of the World that “A pilgrim is not a tourist.”  That, in fact, a pilgrim is “a participator, an authenticator, even more than the locals themselves” (34). This authenticity derives—in part —from the slow progression of the walk as well as from the inevitable pain. It comes from becoming a part of it all.

But from the moment I entered the Cathedral in Santiago I felt my role as participator being shifted—almost forcibly—to that of tourist and observer. A security guard hastily glimpsed in my bag at the entrance —a somewhat haphazard and unthorough check for weapons that left me considering the unlikelihood of the precaution actually preventing a disaster. After this I filed in behind the others who had come to view this magnificent building (or rather the sections currently open). We all ignored the immediate needs of the woman asking for change and marched into the centuries old arch, cameras at the ready. Once inside, the current construction prevents mobility in a way the paths we left behind do not. Strangers did not engage with one another; groups stuck very much to their own. There were no more “Buen Camino” calls. I got in line to view St. James’s tomb, marched up the steps when my time came, wrapped my arms around the small statue, and... quickly departed. St. James, cold in more ways than one, did not hug back, and before I knew it I was quite literally exiting through the gift shop, feeling every bit the tourist. Come, look, buy; I longed for eat, sleep, walk.

However, today I realized that I can always reclaim my status as participator. Our group went on a tour that took us to several beautiful spots outside of Santiago. As we left the fishing museum, we spotted a patch of sand down below that seemed to beckon for us. Our guide, a thorough and (and fortunately patient) man, seemed very focused on getting us to our next stop, but we—no doubt looking like a group of half-starved puppies—begged a moment to spend with the water. Shannon interceded on our behalf, and we were off. Moments later our feet were in the water as we laughed and looked for sea glass. And just like that, we were participators again. We were walkers who found and embraced that spot just off the path that must be explored. We were those who experience, those who look deliberately for experience.