The Way

The Way of St James crosses north Spain, from France to Santiago de Compostella, and then to the vast ocean on the coasts of Galicia, in Finisterre. Literally “the end of the earth”.

Over centuries, the trail was hiked by millions of people looking for inspiration, compassion, kindness, renewal, forgiveness, companionship, solitude. They walked with burdens to get rid of, guilt to cure from, hopes to augment and reignite, dreams to revive, ambitions to be found, and gratitude to be given; even to no one in particular; or to whoever happened to cross their path in the Way.

While walking The Way, I came across a quote from Paulo Coelho’s book The Pilgrimage:

When you travel, you experience, in a very practical way, the act of rebirth. You confront completely new situations, the day passes more slowly, and on most journeys you don’t even understand the language the people speak.

I never thought about traveling in this way. But I was lucky to read the quote half way of The Way, and I looked at everything as a newborn child from that moment.

I looked at every turn of the Way with the expectation and awe of a new world opening up in front of me. Every cloud, every shadow of the sun through the chestnuts and oaks. I looked at the trail’s semi-buried and loose small stones. I looked at the thousands of stones left on the Cruz de Ferro, some with names and dates written on them. I wondered if they thought about being reborn too. I left my anonymous one randomly. I’ve picked it up days before my trip from one my favorite trails in Washington.

I looked in detail at the old bricks, stones and wooden beams that made up long abandoned barns, sheds and horreos. I imagined the dreams, frustrations, and hopes of everyone who worked and lived in these structures that were slowly being retaken by nature. I felt the resignation of those who felt trapped in poverty, ignorance and just a hard life. I felt an immense sense of gratitude for everything I have and the wonderful experiences I’ve had in my life.

I looked at the stones polished by the small streams in the greener and wetter areas of Galicia. Each one of them witness to the Pilgrims’ expressions of relief as they sunk their tired feet into them.

North Spain is the land of my ancestors, I walked tens of miles imagining them walking next to me on the same paths. They showed the newborn me their cities and towns. Their vineyards, fruits, goats and cows. I heard their voices and laughter as they run in the large plazas, markets and churches. Were they aware of my presence? Did they hear my questions?

After crossing into Galicia, I saw my teenager great-grandfather asking his father permission to cross the ocean to this great place called America, were all dreams would become true. And all opportunity was. He told me he got it when he turned 15. And off he went.

And although his dreams perhaps didn’t fully materialize, I told him that eventually everything turned out just fine, so he could be at peace. I hope he heard me.