It
is 6 am; the sky is gunmetal gray trying to make up its mind whether to rain or
not. There is a slight chill in the air,
but no breeze moves through the plaza. The square and building are mostly made
of gray stone, which seems to match the sky today. The well-worn stones have been
given a shiny wet sheen from last night’s rain along with puddles here and
there. There are a few people wandering about careful not to step into puddles
while others are seated on the damp stones looking up at the Cathedral seemly deep
in thought. It is very quiet at this time of the day no birds, no loud voices,
no sirens in the background, no bagpipes or toots from the stupid make-believe
train that takes pilgrims and tourists on a short ride around the city.
It
seems now as if the Praza is starting to wake up taking a deep inhaling breath
of the morning air. The inhale seems to draw pilgrims into the Praza through
the tunnel opening where the Camion de Santiago has led them. This space has been the end of the Camion de Santiago
for 100’s of years. I imagine that today Pilgrims act no different from the ones
who have traveled to this place for centuries and looked upon the
Cathedral. As they enter and look up, many
are overwhelmed with tears, others with joyous laughter. They look around for familiar
faces of fellow pilgrims they have met on the walk. If found arms wide, they
rush to each other hugging with tears streaming while huge smiles crease their faces.
Then it exhales, and the pilgrims are
sent on their way. Some hold strong not wanting to leave just yet.
Another
inhale and new Pilgrim’s enter some forming groups hugging and laughing while reliving
their travels. Some drop their backpacks
to the ground, falling to their knee’s tears streaming as they glaze at the
Cathedral. Many sit alone or lie down
using backpacks as pillows deep staring at the Cathedral in contemplation. Some stand with backpacks above their heads, their faces beam
with wide smiles as pictures are taken. Those who have ridden bicycles raise
them high over their heads yelling triumphally. There is no such thing as race,
gender, or nationality in this place.
Yes, some wave their countries flags, but no offense is taken. Another
exhale, and the process begins again over and over, hour after hour, day after
day, year after year. The Pilgrims arriving
here today, as in the past, may feel a deep loss at the end. Their Camion is
over, or so it feels.
It
is time to return to their families, friends, and maybe jobs. Albergues with communal
meals filled with laughter and new friends will only be memories. The ability
to walk slowly in contemplation not having to rush hither and yond slowly fade
as day to day life returns. Sitting outside
a café on the side of the road enjoying Café Con Leche while wishing those
waking by Bueno Camino will bring a smile to your face and the thought of
returning. As a Pilgrim, you may have traveled at least 500 miles on foot, bicycle,
and sometimes other means with nothing but their backpack. Upon returning home,
one may look around at all the accumulated stuff in their lives and wonder why? Walking the Camino change some for a short
time, others permanently.
Bueno
Camino
