Page 113 of Every Step She Takes
I can’t make out much more than silhouettes, but I know Mal, even in the dark. Even only in shadow and outline.
We come over a small hill to a path through the trees lit up with solar-paneled lights, and we click off our own lights. The trail becomes thicker with other pilgrims, especially as the sun begins to rise over the valley. Blue-gray mist clings to everything as we make it to our first stop of the morning. The café is quiet, even as small groups come and go on their way to Santiago, all conversations hushed, almost reverent.
I order a cappuccino, and then I queue to use the restroom. By the time I join the rest of the group at the tables outside, there’s only one chair left, the one right across from Mal.
In the pale morning sun, I see the purple bags under her eyes and the tired set of her bowed mouth.
“We’re almost there. Only ten more miles,” Inez says, and even her tone is hushed, as if the proximity to Santiago is too sacred for her normal excited tone. “As we walk this last bit of the Camino, I want you to think about what you hoped to find in Santiago de Compostela.”
The truth is, I have no idea what I hoped to find.
I agreed to this trip to help my sister, torun awayfrom my sister. I agreed because I needed more time. Time away from the store, away from the family pressure. Time to figure myself out. I thought if I managed to make it to Santiago, I would only find the things I wanted to escape waiting for me again.
We walk, and the path gets busier the closer we get to Santiago. Large Spanish tour groups guided by people holding colorful flags create blockades that we have to weave around. I get separated from the group more than once, lost in a sea of people in matching neon-yellow shirts for almost a mile, but I always end up alongside Ro and Rebecca, or Vera and Ari. We’re all heading to the same place, after all.
What am I hoping to find in Santiago?
Closure, maybe? The ability to move on from my first love? The acceptance that this is part of what it means to be vulnerable with someone else. Sometimes, they shit all over your heart.
The path forks in front of us. The flocks of pilgrims all go one way, but Inez quietly beckons us with a hand to follow her in the other direction. “A more scenic route into the city,” she promises.
We can see the buildings of Santiago over the copse of trees, closer than ever.
About a mile from town, we pass through a crosswalk that’s been painted in the colors of the trans flag. Vera stops to take photos before realizing there’s more.
There’s a bench painted in the colors of the lesbian flag. Another one like the bi flag. They’re at some kind of school or community center, and the courtyard is filled with gay benches and picnic tables, every surface painted like a different pride flag. Everyone takes photos with them, and it feels like some kind of sign, to come across the place so close to Santiago.
I just don’t know what the signmeans.
What am I hoping to find in Santiago?
Probably more than one city can give me.
It’s a church.
That’s what I find in Santiago.
We spill into the central square of Santiago de Compostela with dozens, if not hundreds, of other pilgrims after fourteen days and two hundred miles, and it’s just a fucking church.
It’s a cool church, I guess, but half of it is concealed behind construction scaffolding. The square is full of pilgrims triumphantly celebrating the end of the journey. Some take pictures, some reunite with old Camino friends, some sit in the middle of the square, backs propped against their packs, staring up atthat stupid church like it has all the answers. I keep looking at it, trying to see what they see.
The tour group sticks together long enough to take a final group photo, then scatters. Most people go to line up to receive their pilgrim credentials. Ro and Rebecca go to find some brunch. Vera lingers behind with me for a while and takes a thousand photos, not of the church, but of the people watching the church.
I’m frozen in place. Fourteen days. Two hundred miles. And it’s just a church?
“Do you want to go get our certificates?”
I turn, and there’s Mal, appearing at my side like she did a dozen times in the last two weeks.
I shake my head. “It’s just a church,” I tell her.
Mal glances over her shoulder at the spires, then back at me. “Well, yeah.”
Fourteen days, two hundred miles. Bruises and blisters. Shin splints and sunburns and side stitches. Horrible twin beds in horrible hostels. Laughter and tears. So much wine, and so little sleep.
“And it’s under construction.” I point to the ugly scaffolding. “What are people even looking at?”
“I don’t really think the destination is the point,” she says, her eyes on those half-covered spires. She’s probably right. It shouldn’t matter that this is how it ends: with the two of us standing an awkward distance apart, barely able to look at each other. All that should matter are those fourteen days, those two hundred miles we had together.
