Among the faithful.

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Ruben and his flatmates take off for the holiday weekend (which holiday, exactly, no one can say). Having learned absolutely nothing in the past six weeks, I’m scrambling for ideas when I find out that the hostel I’d spent my first night in is full. About my ill-fated decision not to book a bed that very same night, let’s not get all worked up. This time I get lucky. There’s a handsome little hostal not far from the cathedral that has a room for the weekend. My luck gets better still when I show up to find that said room - let’s call it “cozy” - is mine for just €10 a night: a bargain that ensures I’ll actually be eating a proper meal or two this weekend.

Cramming pinchos and raciones into my mouth, I’m certainly getting my fill of the famous Galician fare. For the first time since leaving San Sebastian three weeks ago, my tummy is making contented little noises at night - somewhere between a purr and a sigh. I gorge on pulpo a feira - a take on octopus that’s the region’s signature dish - and grilled squid bathed in olive oil. In a handful of tapas joints on Franco, they practically greet me like Johnny Carson when I strut through the door. Even the bocadillos in Santiago seem to be prepared with a certain Galician swagger.

I’m also snatching some precious quantities of quiet time that, I realize now, are sorely needed. I’ve spent most of the past two weeks on other people’s couches, forgetting in the process that I’m actually a crotchety, solitary soul at heart. It’s a relief to scatter my things over the floor and leave my bed unmade; I spend an hour one night staring at the illumined façades of the cathedral, listening to Chopin’s Preludes and thinking rambling thoughts. In English.

Back at the hotel bar I get accosted by a tall, wobbly drunk. He’s wearing black pants and a black rugby shirt with a black sweater carelessly slung over his shoulders. His grin can be classified as one of the shit-eating variety. When he approaches me he straightens with effort, looking me over with great significance. His eyebrows - gray and full - make grave movements as he scrutinizes my features. “Polania,” he says, then shakes his head. “Argentina.”

When he hears I’m from New York his face brightens. “New. York,” he says - two clumsy, lead-footed syllables. After warbling a drunken take on Sinatra, he begins to tell me about his travels in America: Tampa, Clearwater, Orlando. “The Everglades,” he adds solemnly. I tell him that I’ve never been much of a fan of Florida, and he heaves a mighty sigh with his shoulders. He’s never been to New York, conceding that America is a vast place indeed. “Connecticut. Ohio. Boston.” He leans against the bar and ticks them off on his fingers. When he stops to contemplate Texas he takes a step back. “Texas,” he says. “So big!” He then proceeds to show me how big, using torn napkin scraps to illustrate his point.

I tell him about the places I’ve seen in Spain. He tells me about the love of his life, a curvy Danish girl for whom he’s harbored feelings for more than two decades. “Such great tits!” he says, tracing two preposterous breasts in the air. “Dangerous!” He wants to tell her how much he loves her. He wants to see America again. “Connecticut. Ohio. Boston,” he says. The bartender is making eyes at me, motioning toward the door. Afterward, lying in bed, I’m still haunted by the outline of those marvelous breasts, dangerously stampeding through Connecticut, Ohio and Boston, laying waste to everything in their path.


In threes and fours, in pairs, hobbling into the Plaza do Obradoiro with just a walking stick for company, the peregrinos pour into Santiago. There’s an ecstatic light on their faces when they see the cathedral. Some collapse in weary piles; others - piping on flutes and beating drums - dance barefoot on the flagstones. This is a strange, marvelous place. Though I’d read about the camino before coming to Spain, I’m completely caught off-guard by what it means to these people - haggard, joyful, eating little sandwiches they’ve made on slices of thin white bread. Now and then someone sprints across the plaza: they’ve seen a pilgrim they might’ve crossed paths with 100, 200 miles ago. When they greet each other - even as strangers - they do it with such feeling you think their hearts might burst.

It’s tough to come here as just a plain old traveler. In any city you visit there’s a sense you’re on the outside looking in, but in Santiago, even the travelers - those ragged wayfarers with their walking sandals and overstuffed packs - are part of a separate tribe. I get the feeling something epic is going on just beyond my fingertips. During Sunday service in the cathedral, the priest spends a full five minutes welcoming groups of pilgrims from around the world. “Desde Italia, veinte y dos. Desde Alemania, treinta y seis. Desde Mexico y Brasil, diez y ocho.” About the solitary American who’s taken the train in from Madrid, there’s no mention. There are crowds standing in the pews and the aisles, or sitting Indian-style around the columns. A short, stocky nun presides over the lectern as we file in. You can read the lines in her face like a musical score from 20 feet away, yet when she suddenly bursts into song, the sound is so high and pure it practically rattles the gates of St. Peter.

Throughout the service there’s a murmur of thanksgiving, of weeping and exhausted sighs. It’s a lavish scene. A fiery priest thunders from the pulpit, now and then prompting a flurry of joyous cries. Behind him close to a dozen others are huddled; when they crowd close to the altar, I’m reminded less of a group of priests performing the Eucharist than Kool & the Gang performing live at the Apollo. They break up to offer communion in different corners of the cathedral, and suddenly the weariest of pilgrims has found the strength to lower a shoulder and piledrive to the front of the line. I briefly flirt with the idea of joining the queue, though my Christian heart wavers. If you’ve spent the better part of 10 minutes checking out girls’ asses while they receive communion, you get the sense that little wafer might just scorch your tongue.

The service is winding down, and excitement builds around the cathedral. For all the celebrated flourishes of its Baroque façade, the solemn austerity of its soaring nave, the cathedral’s main attraction is the massive botafumeiro that hangs from the ceiling - an approximation of what it would look like if the hand of God were swinging incense at the altar. It takes a half-dozen robed men, squatting and jerking on an elaborate pulley, to set the thing in motion, and soon it’s swaying back and forth, gathering momentum high above the heads of the dazzled pilgrims. At full speed it’s a sight to behold, a regular wrecking ball of faith, demolishing the walls of non-belief and leaving, in its wake, a cloud of smoke and a rapturous burst of applause.


That night I meet a pack of pilgrims over croquetas in a popular taverna. They’ve just arrived today, having started in St. Jean eight weeks and 500 miles ago. Most have been traveling together for over a month, and there’s a weary familiarity between them. You see it in how they rest on each other’s shoulders or make tired, sympathetic eyes. They speak English but have come from all over the globe: from Mexico and Germany, from Canada and Spain and Peru. They’re still decked out in hiking boots and bandanas, their calves caked with dirt. A tall South African named Stephan is telling me about the camino. He has an intense, penetrating gaze, and as he tells his story, his voice seems to be walking the road again: struggling through the ascent in the Pyrenees, trudging through days of rain and mud, soaring at his first sight of the cathedral. “It’s the hardest thing you’ll ever do,” he says, “but God…”

He gives me his number for whenever it is I make it to Cape Town. They’re off for a long dinner and a night of hard drinking. Stephan doesn’t ask me to join them, and I don’t expect him to: this is a well-deserved celebration I haven’t earned for myself. Once or twice I see them later in the night, clutching each other’s shoulders and embracing, and I do my best to steer clear of these drunk, flushed, blistered pilgrims, whose long road together has overlapped mine for just a brief, blinding flash.

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