One month before my thirtieth birthday, I finally embarked on a journey to fulfill a wish I made ten years ago. I walked five days on the Camino de Santiago in Spain, carrying a 10-kilogram backpack, from Sarria to Santiago de Compostela, covering a total of 114 kilometers. To prevent many details from fading from my memory, I decided to convert my experiences into words for long-term storage.
Background#
I first learned about the Camino de Santiago during my sophomore year when I took a course on Pilgrimage Literature taught by Professor Martha Collins. This course was perhaps one of my favorites throughout college. We read "The Golden Ass," published in the second century, which tells the story of a man transformed into a donkey who wanders far and wide. We also explored the story of Margery Kempe, a medieval mystic and pilgrim, read haikus by Matsuo Bashō written along the Narrow Road to the Deep North, and discussed "The Alchemist." Because of this course, I watched the film "The Way," starring Martin Sheen, which depicts a father who embarks on the pilgrimage after losing his only son. At that time, I thought to myself that one day I would also walk the Camino, letting my own feet tread on the fields of rural Spain, capturing the shadows of that distant world with my own eyes.
Prelude#
Then ten years passed, during which I hardly thought about the Camino. Until last spring, when I turned twenty-nine, I realized I had not yet accomplished the significant milestones society expected of me. I was unclear about how to spend my life, and the alarm of turning thirty was ringing not far away. I felt anxious, not understanding why, but I vaguely knew how to alleviate that anxiety: by creating a strong association between something that made me anxious and something I looked forward to. So, when I turned thirty, I would walk the Camino!
Thus, for the entire past year, I had been looking forward to the arrival of this summer. Even more exciting was that my friend Atlas also decided to walk the Camino. To meet me in Sarria and complete the final 114 kilometers together, she set off a month early from Saint Jean Pied de Port, starting her pilgrimage journey. During our recent video chat, Atlas was walking along a country road, surrounded by cows and sheep, the weather cool, and her smile bright. At that moment, I wished I could drop everything in my work and life and fly to Spain to start this hiking journey early.
With anticipation, the days passed until about a week before departure, when Atlas suddenly messaged me: "My grandfather passed away this morning, and I'm on my way back home."
C’est la vie!
I can hardly imagine how wonderful Atlas's journey was during those three weeks, and how shocked and saddened she must have felt that morning. My heart goes out to her! Best of luck! So, I would complete the journey on my own.
With just a week until departure, I vaguely knew I was going to Sarria to walk the Camino, but aside from my flight, I hadn't booked any accommodation or itinerary. So, I quickly booked my first night's stay in Madrid and a train to Sarria, planning to figure out the rest as I went along. We’ll see how it goes!
Day 0#
Because I had been lazy and didn't learn Spanish in advance, I spent two days in Madrid gesturing to order food. After a bit of confusion, I was relieved to find the correct train platform and boarded the right train. Once I arrived at the platform, my anxiety eased, as it seemed the entire platform was filled with people carrying heavy backpacks, marked with the Camino shell symbol.
A family of four sitting next to me on the train was chatting in a mix of Chinese and English, so I asked if they were also walking the Camino. The oldest lady said yes and then enthusiastically started chatting with me. She was with her daughter, her sister, and her sister's daughter, four female family members who had flown from California to Morocco for a week and were now completing the last five days of the pilgrimage. The lady was probably in her seventies, very talkative, and during the three-hour journey, she shared her family's life stories. What moved me the most was the story of how her mother traveled from a rural area in Jiangsu and Zhejiang to find her father, who had been conscripted during the forties. Although many details were not discussed, the image of a strong and brave woman came alive before me. Her story was as captivating as "The Garden of Autumn," and many times I found myself on the verge of tears, desperately holding them back.
After getting off the train, I stayed in Sarria that day, preparing to start hiking the next day. However, the lady's family had to walk several more kilometers to reach their accommodation, so we said goodbye at the train station, hoping to meet again on the road.
Day 1#
Due to the time difference, I woke up very early that day, getting up around five and taking my time to pack. By six-thirty, I was on my way. The previous day, I checked into a smaller albergue with only five or six guests, and when I left, the sound of snoring still echoed in the room. I initially thought I would have to search for the Camino, but almost as soon as I stepped out of the albergue, I saw some people already heading north with their backpacks, so I followed them and soon spotted the shell markers along the path.
It was still dark, and the streetlights illuminated the mist. Some small cafes were already open, with one or two travelers standing inside, looking sleepy. I quickly left the town and entered the countryside, where the sky gradually brightened as I walked through vast fields and woods. Everything around me felt new and exciting; I kept taking out my phone to photograph the tall, straight coniferous trees, the apricot trees lining the road, and I even found myself smiling at the cows and sheep.
A young man walking quickly passed by and asked where I was from. I said China, and he smiled, giving me my first "Buen Camino" of the trip. It means "Have a good journey," a common phrase among pilgrims. So, I began to say "Buen Camino" to those I passed.
On the road, there were people of all ages speaking various languages. It reassured me to see many female travelers walking the Camino alone, making me feel very safe. I even passed a pilgrim leaning on a cane, with his left leg in a cast, moving very slowly with the help of his right leg and cane. But what made me happiest was a little poodle named Max, who was accompanying his owner on this journey. Every time I saw him, he was bouncing around, circling the pedestrians or excitedly chasing butterflies. Whenever a car passed by, I could hear his owner calling, "Max!" and then Max would slow down, dodge the car, and wait for his owner.
When I reached the 14-kilometer mark, I stopped at a cafe by the roadside and ordered orange juice and a Spanish omelet. The omelet was made with two large, hard-baked pieces of bread with a huge egg in between, so it took me a long time to eat. I also took out my journal to jot down a few notes before continuing my hike. It was around eleven in the morning, and the sun was starting to heat up, so I focused on making progress and completed the day's 22 kilometers by around one o'clock, checking into an albergue by the river in the town of Portomarin.
This albergue was large, with a total of 130 beds, and when I checked in, there were already 90 people staying there. I dropped off my backpack and wandered around the town. The sun was very strong, and the town had a beautiful church and many white houses, reminiscent of scenes from various James Bond movies I had seen. I found a Spanish restaurant, sat down for a proper meal, and ordered lentil soup, tuna salad, and a beer. Just as I was about to pay, a young lady with two braids asked if she could sit next to me, so I spent the meal chatting with her. She had started her pilgrimage from Saint Jean Pied de Port but had taken a detour to Leon because she found the scenery too beautiful, so she had been sightseeing and walking at a leisurely pace to Portomarin. I was curious how she had so much time to spend on the road, and she told me she was retired and wanted to see the world while she still had time. I thought she was in her twenties, but she was actually in her sixties!
I envy you! I said. You can travel the world without working! She replied, You’re doing great too! You get two vacations a year to travel, and you have many years ahead to spend on the road. Plus, you should respect your job because it allows you to afford this journey.
After finishing my meal, I said goodbye to her and returned to the albergue. People were quietly resting, so I took my dirty clothes to the backyard, joining some older folks who were washing laundry. I hand-washed a quick-dry long-sleeve shirt with a small plastic basin and soap, hanging it on the clothesline. The clothes of over a hundred people were hanging unevenly on the lines in the backyard, swaying gently in the wind, making me smile.
Day 2#
I originally thought it would be difficult to fall asleep with the foot odor and snoring of over a hundred people, but perhaps because I was so tired from the day’s hike, I actually slept very well. I put on my eye mask and earplugs around nine and fell into a deep sleep, waking up around four the next morning feeling refreshed. I planned to walk 24 kilometers that day, but since the weather forecast said it would reach thirty degrees in the afternoon, I decided to set off early. I packed my things by the light of my phone and left the albergue at five-thirty in the morning.
It was pitch black outside, and there was no one on the streets. I followed my phone's navigation to the edge of town, where I encountered two signs pointing in opposite directions, both indicating the Camino. I guessed I was about to enter the countryside and hesitated about whether to proceed alone in the dark while searching for my headlamp in my backpack. Just as I was securing my headlamp to my forehead, some pilgrims appeared nearby. A couple waved at me and said something in Spanish. I asked, "This way?" One of them said "Si," so I followed them. Another gentleman who looked Southeast Asian joined us, and we left Portomarin, entering the forest.
There was no light in the woods, and the fog was thick. The four of us had three headlamps, barely illuminating the path ahead for about five meters. In the light, I could see the fog swirling like fine rain. It was very quiet around us; no one spoke. I guessed that even if we tried to talk, we wouldn’t understand each other due to the language barrier, but we all moved forward silently, closely together. After a long time, the sky began to lighten, and I could see us alternating between passing through woods and fields. As it got brighter, I recognized some villages and shrines. Still, there was no one else on the road. When I stopped to take photos of the beautiful scenery in the fog, I noticed the other three slowed down too, perhaps taking out their phones or stopping to read the inscriptions on the milestones until everyone caught up.
In this way, we silently walked together for over two hours until the sky brightened, and the fog dispersed. The Southeast Asian gentleman slowed down, and the other two walked into a fork in the road to rest in a village, and we all dispersed. The morning countryside unfolded before me as I walked towards the dawn, my hair damp from the mist. The phrase "the dew is heavy" came to my mind. I thought about how students in ancient times traveling to take exams in the capital must have felt, walking day after day for long periods. The 114-kilometer journey takes only an hour by car, but walking takes five days. If I were to set off from my hometown of Wuhan to Beijing for an exam, it might take me half a year, with high mountains and long roads, and an uncertain future. So, those gatherings back then were so precious that farewells had to be commemorated with poetry. I recalled the scene in "Chang'an 30,000 Li" where Li Bai missed Meng Haoran by the Yangtze River, writing, "An old friend bids farewell at Yellow Crane Tower, the spring flowers fall in March as they head to Yangzhou," and thought about my missed encounter with Atlas on the pilgrimage, feeling deeply moved.
When the sun had fully risen, I passed a sign. The mobile signal was weak, so I couldn't translate its meaning, but I guessed the side road would lead to an ancient relic, so I followed the small path. In less than five minutes, I stood on the ridge of a small hill, with the sea of clouds rolling under the early sun on my right and a large area of ruins from the fourth century BC on my left. The sun shone on me, casting my shadow on the shallow foundations of those houses. I waved at it, and it seemed to wave back at me, as if crossing two thousand years of time and space to converse with me. At that moment, the lyrics of Zhou Shen's song "Your eyes are filled with time, and behind you are stories waiting to be told" echoed in my mind, and tears quickly welled up.
I had originally hoped that the Camino would provide me with some enlightenment, allowing me to transition from one state to a more ideal one. Suddenly, I realized that I didn't need to reach any destination or become someone else. On the road, being myself was the happiest thing in the world.
At the 12-kilometer mark, my feet began to ache, so I stopped at a small cafe by the roadside and ordered a coffee and a Galician pie. The lady at the cafe didn't speak English, and I didn't speak Spanish, so I wasn't sure if I had ordered food. After a long time, I finished my cafe con leche, but my food still hadn't arrived. So, I pointed at the menu and asked again. The lady looked at me for a moment, confused, then showed a very apologetic expression and went to the kitchen to bring me a plate of pie, saying "mucho gracias." I slowly cut the pie and ate while watching the pilgrims come and go. Some came in, quickly ordered a coffee, drank it, and left; others came in to grab a croissant to go; some chatted happily with the owner in rapid Spanish, and others, like me, came in to order food in a mix of broken Spanish and English.
The weather got hotter, and after I set off again, I gradually felt bored. I passed a travel group from Taiwan and chatted briefly with a middle-aged couple among them before quickening my pace, hoping to reach the next town before noon. Just then, a voice came from behind, asking where I was from. It turned out to be an uncle from Northeast China! I could have called him an uncle from Shanghai or Seattle, but I unconsciously referred to him as the Northeast uncle in my mind due to his distinct accent. He was very happy to meet another Chinese speaker and chatted with me on the road. He had also set off from Saint Jean Pied de Port, but because he walked fast, covering forty kilometers a day, he was ahead of others and would reach Santiago in two days. He was retired and interested in everything in the world, loved chatting with people, and had hiked all over the world. We spent a lot of time talking about the places he had been, like Mont Blanc, Everest, Antarctica, and Torres del Paine, as well as the people he met on the road. When we passed a village, he treated me to a glass of orange juice while he had a beer, and then we quickly resumed our hike. I mentioned that I had three days to Santiago and then a week of vacation, wanting to continue to Fisterra and Muxia, the end of the world. The uncle suggested that I could skip the remaining path and take a bus to Portugal, which would be convenient, allowing me to spend time seeing different scenery.
Because we were chatting on the road, the last few kilometers passed quickly, and I reached my destination, Palas de Reis, by noon. The uncle still had to walk another fifteen kilometers before resting, so we said goodbye at the fork in the village. That day, I checked into a youth hostel with fewer people, where each bed had a curtain, making it much more comfortable than the previous two nights. I had lunch, washed my clothes, took a shower, and spent a leisurely afternoon. During dinner, I saw two young girls speaking Chinese, so I went over to chat with them. It turned out they were two PhD students studying in Paris. I added them on WeChat so we could meet up again on the road.
That day, I wrote in my journal: This is the first time I traveled without counting the days, without anxiety about the next destination, without rushing to go home, just enjoying the time on the road. How wonderful.
Day 3#
On the third day, I woke up at five-thirty as usual and set off around six-fifteen, without a fixed itinerary. If I walked 15 kilometers, I could stop at Melide; if I walked 30 kilometers, I could stay in Arzua. For me, 15 kilometers seemed too short, while 30 kilometers was uncharted territory, so I hadn't booked accommodation in advance, thinking I would figure it out as I went. I met an elderly lady at the youth hostel entrance who asked if I wanted to walk together for company. I agreed, and we set off together.
The lady said she was from Brazil and didn't usually like to exercise, not even walking her dog at home. Her husband had booked this pilgrimage trip for her to encourage her to live a healthier life. She walked slowly but loved to chat, asking where I was from and where I was staying. She said, I understand you young people; the world is so big, and there are many opportunities. It's great that you leave your hometown to live in other places. But I love my hometown; Rio de Janeiro may not be very safe, but it is beautiful, and I can't imagine living anywhere else in the world. She also asked if I had found Santiago. I asked what Santiago meant, whether it referred to the church or St. James's tomb. She said she meant the experience of Santiago. She had met many people on the road; some had walked the Camino many times but still hadn't found Santiago, so she was curious if I had found it. To be honest, I didn't know either.
We walked slowly for four kilometers together. Later, the lady said, I only plan to walk to Melide today. You can go ahead if you want to walk more; it's okay. So we exchanged Buen Camino and I continued on.
The next few kilometers were quiet without anyone to chat with. Although I walked quickly, the process felt very long. By the ten-kilometer mark, I was a bit hungry, so I stopped at a small shop for orange juice and churros. The sky was overcast, and I heard someone at the back table say, "The rain is coming," so I quickly finished my orange juice and hit the road again. At first, it was just rumbling in the sky, but within five minutes, the rain started pouring down.
Before setting out, the weather forecast had said Galicia would have clear weather for the next two weeks, so I had removed my umbrella and softshell jacket from my luggage to save weight, leaving only a two-dollar plastic raincoat I bought at Walmart. Just as I covered myself and my backpack with the raincoat, the light rain turned into a downpour. Pedestrians stopped under trees, but I pulled on my raincoat and kept moving forward. "Don't listen to the sound of rain hitting the leaves? Listening is beautiful too."
After walking another five kilometers, the rain stopped just as I reached Melide. The village near Melide was lovely, so I stopped for a coffee, folded my two-dollar raincoat neatly, and stuffed it into my backpack, feeling relieved that neither I nor my backpack had gotten wet. I also passed a huge mural of Pope Francis and thought about how this year was a significant year for pilgrimage, especially due to his passing. I recalled a saying from ancient Shu about Zhuge Liang: "When Ge Gong was alive, no one noticed the difference; after his death, no one could compare."
It was ten o'clock in the morning, and I had already walked 15 kilometers. I thought I could still manage to walk another 15 kilometers before dark, so I decided to continue to Arzua for the night. The scenery along the way remained beautiful, but I began to feel tired, so I took out my headphones and listened to Liang Bo's new album "Spirit." "If someone says you are lonely, you don't have to hesitate; walk your own path and be your own master. Looking down from the sky is a starry night; you must be decisive and avoid the mundane." It was beautifully written.
By around one o'clock in the afternoon, I had walked 27 kilometers, my feet hurt, and I was hungry again, so I stopped to eat by the roadside. After another half hour, I reached Arzua around two o'clock. I hung my washed clothes out to dry and took my journal to wander around the town, looking for a place to write and enjoy some ice cream. Then I looked for supplies for the road. The supermarket I went to was too small, and I wandered around four or five times before finally choosing an orange, a croissant, and a water bottle with a straw. A tall young man was also struggling to choose the same items, and we ended up in the same checkout line. "We all buy the same things every day, right?" he said, with a slight Eastern European accent. "Yes, water, fruit, energy bars," we said in unison.
The young man had also set off from Saint Jean Pied de Port and had been on the road for almost a month, leaving the albergue at five-thirty every morning and reaching the next albergue by ten, giving himself the whole day to think. I asked him how it felt to be nearing the end of his journey. He said it wasn't over yet; when he reached Santiago, he still had five more days to walk to Muxia. We left the supermarket and walked to the intersection. I needed to cross the street, and he was turning left, so we exchanged Buen Camino at the traffic light. What a pity, I thought; I forgot to ask him what he was thinking about every day.
I had originally thought that walking the Camino would be an excellent opportunity for reflection, with plenty of time to be alone and think about life, perhaps gaining clarity on future choices. But after three days on the road, I found I had little opportunity for reflection. Each day, I was physically exhausted, my mind empty, and my usual worries felt far away, leaving me with no motivation to ponder.
Thinking this, I slowly made my way to the albergue. Just two steps from the door, a ragged, dark-skinned man passed by. At first, I didn't pay him much attention, but as we brushed past each other, he shouted, "Chino!" and waved his hand upward as if to disperse some unpleasant odor.
I was taken aback by shock; I hadn't associated the simple and honest Spanish countryside with racial discrimination during these days. The simple state of goodness and beauty on the road suddenly vanished, and I was pulled back into the real world. The various difficulties I faced in life and work due to my race, gender, and age resurfaced in my mind. I realized that nowhere in the world is a utopia, and difficulties do not disappear with travel. I began to wonder what I should be thinking about, what my questions were, and what I needed to solve.
Perhaps I needed to relax, not rush, and take my time to experience the journey.
Day 4#
That morning, I still woke up at five-thirty, packed my things, and set off after eating the croissant and orange I bought two days earlier, which was almost seven o'clock. At the beginning of the day, I felt very weary of hiking because the miraculous transformation described in movies had not happened to me; my life would continue as usual. The magic of this road had faded, and I began to ponder the construction of its infrastructure and the economic effects it brought. I thought, it's just a beginner-level hiking route; what other meaning could it have?
As I walked, I vented to my friends on my phone. I didn't even know why I came to walk this road, I said. My friend replied: People can't always be on the road for such a long time; you just need to care about your physical exhaustion, and you will meet so many strangers along the way, each encounter is unique. Maybe you meet someone in the supermarket and never see them again. Perhaps when you look back later, this journey will take on a different meaning.
I also asked Atlas how she felt on the road, and she expressed a similar sentiment. She said: Completing such a long-distance hike for the first time is a precious memory, and its meaning may ferment in hindsight! It turns out both of them were prophets.
Around eight kilometers in, I stopped for a coffee, and my mindset shifted again. Watching the numbers on the milestone gradually decrease, I suddenly cherished the remaining distance—only 30 kilometers left. Only 25 kilometers left. Only 20 kilometers left. It felt like the gems in an hourglass were slowly running out.
I slowed my pace and began to say Buen Camino more frequently. When I was five kilometers away from O Pedrouzo, I suddenly heard someone exclaim beside me. Turning around, I saw the family of the lady I met on the train! I couldn't believe we really met again! So, it's not just a one-time encounter on the road; there can also be reunions! We chatted all the way, sharing our experiences from the past few days, and before long, we walked into the town.
When I reached the albergue, I encountered a dark-skinned girl I had seen earlier on the road. I said, I saw you on the road! She replied, I saw you too! I saw you yesterday! It turned out she was a girl from Hong Kong, small in stature but carrying a very large and heavy backpack, walking alone from Saint Jean Pied de Port. We chatted for a bit before going to wash up and eat. When I returned to my room after lunch, I found the entire room filled with Asians. I looked at the Hong Kong girl in confusion, and she looked back at me, puzzled, because I was sure the uncle who stood behind me during check-in was European, but he wasn't in this room. It seemed the front desk staff had assigned rooms based on skin color. She probably thought that Asians would find it easier to communicate together, but that was clearly not the case. Among the eight people in the room, five were Koreans, but they didn't know each other and couldn't speak English, and there was a Japanese girl whose eyes were glued to her phone. I passed by her bed while going to the bathroom and complimented her on the Crayon Shin-chan keychain on her backpack, but she didn't seem interested in chatting. The entire room was enveloped in an awkward silence. So, I had to give up on chatting and began to study the itinerary for the next few days.
The Northeast uncle had suggested I take a trip to Portugal, so I started looking up travel guides for Portugal on Xiaohongshu. I discovered there were so many places to visit: Porto, Lisbon, Algarve, and then I had to return to Madrid, and I could also go to Seville, Toledo, Segovia, and so on. The transportation in between could be by bus, train, or plane; it would take eight hours from A to B, but if I stopped at point C, each leg would only take three hours. However, the accommodation prices varied at each place. Should I rent a car? But I couldn't return it in a foreign country, and so on. Without prior planning, I was overwhelmed. I frowned as I looked through travel guides all night, ultimately giving up on planning ahead. Forget it; I’ll just go with the flow.
With just one day left until Santiago, I felt a bit anxious about returning home, not wanting to arrive at the destination alone. So, I messaged the two girls from Paris I met on the road, planning to have dinner together after we arrived.
Day 5#
Due to the anxiety about my itinerary, I didn't sleep well the night before, but I still woke up at five-thirty. By the time I left the albergue at six-thirty, most people in the room, including the Hong Kong girl, had already left. I walked a few steps and encountered a somewhat confused lady at an intersection. She asked me where the road was, and after studying the map for a while, I decided on a route, and we walked side by side for two hours.
The lady was from Mexico and moved to Vancouver as an adult. This time, she was walking the Camino with her son. Every day, she would set off 45 minutes earlier; her son walked faster and could sleep a bit longer, catching up with her on the road to complete the day's journey together. I asked the lady why she decided to walk the Camino. She said that when she first moved to Canada in her early twenties, she worked in the tourism industry and often hosted guests from Spain. People frequently mentioned how beautiful the Camino was and recommended that she try it. Later, she met her future partner, started a family, and decades passed. During the pandemic, she mentioned the Camino again, saying how wonderful it would be to walk it if given the chance. Her son asked, "Why not?" So, every year on her birthday, he would gift her outdoor gear, sometimes a backpack, sometimes a sleeping bag, gradually gathering everything she needed.
This year, the young man saved enough money, quit his job, and his mother accumulated enough vacation time, so they set off together. The lady said, I admire my son; he is so young yet so brave to explore the world. When I was young, I thought I had all the time in the world, but once I entered my career, I was afraid to leave, fearing I would lose the resources and opportunities I had built up. After getting married and having children, I had even less chance to see the world. You are thirty this year, still very young. My age is double yours, and I have just begun; my son changed me. So, if you want to see the world, do it early.
We talked about our experiences on the journey. The lady said that compared to here, people in North America seem to have more things, but they want even more. However, during this month on the road, I realized that people need very little. A small bed, some simple food, a hot shower, and I would be very happy. Everything I need is in my backpack.
We parted ways in front of a breakfast shop near Santiago airport; I stopped to have breakfast while she continued on to catch the noon mass at the cathedral. I said, "See you at noon," and she replied, "See you at church!" But we didn't meet again because after breakfast, my knee began to hurt. Due to concerns about the weight of my luggage, I hadn't brought my trekking poles and had been overly confident that I would never experience knee pain from hiking. It turned out that humans always pay the price for their foolishness. With every step, my left knee ached, forcing me to move at a snail's pace. I gave up on rushing to the noon mass and slowly walked the last 10 kilometers, which felt quite torturous. The 10-kilogram backpack I carried every day had a cumulative effect, and carrying it made my whole body ache.
I arrived in Santiago around eleven-thirty. I decided to skip going directly to the Santiago Cathedral, the journey's endpoint, and instead rest at my accommodation first. The place was a delightful surprise; it was a hostel converted from an old monastery. I booked a small single room for just 28 euros, and from the window, I could see the spire of the monastery and the little town below, feeling like a monk studying classics here in ancient times. After washing my clothes and bed linens and having a meal, I set out around four o'clock to get my pilgrimage certificate from the Pilgrim Office. Santiago was charming, and I strolled through small shops, bought souvenirs, and leisurely obtained my certificate, completing this journey. At that time, the PhD girls also arrived, and we took photos in front of the cathedral and enjoyed Italian food together.
They were both interesting; one was studying the history of the Wei, Jin, and Northern and Southern Dynasties, while the other was studying literature. We chatted about our daily lives and discovered that Europe and North America were quite different. I initially thought I would miss the evening mass at the cathedral after dinner, but the girls encouraged me to give it a try. So, I queued up and quickly entered the church. All the seats were taken, so I stood in the aisle waiting for the mass to begin.
After a while, someone stood next to me. It's you again! I exclaimed, realizing it was the Hong Kong girl from the albergue two nights ago. We watched the mass together (in fact, the mass was also conducted in Spanish, so I had no idea what was being said), then went to see St. James's tomb before leaving the church.
Do you have any plans for tonight? she asked. I don't. How about you?
I want to go have dinner, she said.
I've already eaten, I replied, but I can eat again. So we went to a Chinese restaurant, ordered spicy stir-fried intestines and dry pot cauliflower, and sat down to chat about the people and events we encountered on the road. I asked her what she gained from this month on the road, and she said, "Now I have more peace with myself." It turned out she was only twenty years old, having spent the past year as an exchange student in Paris, taking the opportunity to visit various countries in Europe. She even went to Kyiv in Ukraine. But isn't that place at war? I was surprised. "I wanted to go while I had the chance!" she said, describing how a country traumatized by war would be different.
She asked if I had met any impressive people on the road. I said, "You! Your backpack looks so big and heavy!" She replied, "I have a deep impression of you too because everyone rushes to wash their clothes and take showers when they arrive at the albergue, but you can wait until late at night!"
Were there any memorable landscapes? I said I had two very memorable moments. One was the day I arrived in Madrid; I walked to the Egyptian Temple on the west side of the city to watch the sunset. The hill was already crowded with people, many young girls and boys holding their phones, singing along to Spanish songs they all seemed to know, while a nearby jazz club played swing music, and young couples embraced and danced there. A large flock of birds crossed the sky, gathering above my head before scattering. At that moment, I felt like one of those birds, my joy soaring into the sky, rushing towards freedom. Then I described another moment, a transcendent conversation I had on the Roman ruins on the second day of the pilgrimage.
"Oh, your perspective on the world is so romantic," she said, her eyes sparkling.
Then she asked if it was difficult to live far from home. I said, "Not at all! You can walk from St. Jean to here; how could living in another place be harder than this?"
"But travel will end, and life will not," she said.
However, the people we repeatedly meet on the road, as time stretches, will become friends and remain in our lives. When you stay in one place for a long time, you will know which supermarket has the cheapest goods, which mechanic is the most reliable, and everything will become easier.
She said she also wanted to try living in other places but felt hesitant about the unknown. However, everyone she met on the road encouraged her to give it a try. I also encouraged her to try.
Moreover, we both realized that the questions we wanted to ask didn't really have answers. Just like the Taiwanese aunt on the first day told me to respect my job, and the Mexican aunt on the last day said to see the world early, they were saying opposite things, but both made sense. There is no correct answer, only my own answer.
At the same time, the way does not exist; only your own way exists. Just like everyone passed the Roman ruins, but what they saw was completely different, the girl said. Everyone starts at different times, with different rhythms, and stops in different places. There is no so-called "the road"; only walking your own road has meaning.
In Spain, it doesn't get dark until ten in the summer, but when I looked towards the door, it was already completely dark. We realized it was already ten-thirty at night, so we settled the bill and hugged goodbye at the door.
The girl said, "I think you have a lot of thoughts; you will definitely find your own answer." I replied, "You too! Wishing you all the best in the future." Then we parted ways, walking in opposite directions through the night. On the way to the monastery, I felt the magic happening; perhaps my life would indeed change because of this journey. I realized that wisdom and age may not be related; the girl was only twenty, yet she was strong, brave, and perceptive. I shared my worries about turning thirty with her, and she completely understood and offered her insights. As we talked about our lives, we both became emotional.
I recalled my twenty-year-old self. Back then, I wanted to go to Germany as an exchange student, but out of fear of the unknown, I made up a bunch of excuses like my German wasn't good enough or I wouldn't finish my major courses, ultimately not trying. I wondered if I had truly set off to walk the Camino that year when I made that wish at twenty, how different my life trajectory might have been. But that year, I didn't have enough psychological energy to undertake this journey. It was the people I met and the experiences I had during the ten years from twenty to thirty that gave me enough energy to embark on this journey. And how lucky I was, how fortunate I was to finally arrive here!
Epilogue#
The day after completing the last 114 kilometers of the Camino, I took a bus to Porto, Portugal, following the suggestion of the Northeast uncle I met on the road. While wandering around the city, I unexpectedly saw a milestone marked with the shell symbol. Oh! The Porto Cathedral, this is the starting point of the Portuguese route of the Camino! With a flood of emotions, I took out my phone to photograph this milestone at the starting point when suddenly a voice asked, "Are you a Chinese girl?"
The voice belonged to another Chinese girl, who asked if I was also walking the Camino. I said I had just completed the French route yesterday. She told me she would set off from here the next day to walk the Portuguese route. We took photos together to commemorate the moment, and then the girl got busy editing her photos, so I quietly walked away.
"Hey," the girl called me back. "You're alone; take your time."
"You too!"
A young man playing guitar in the square was singing "Smells Like Teen Spirit." I turned around, and tears suddenly streamed down my face. Oh no, I forgot to say Buen Camino to her.
As the pilgrim's passport says, when the Camino ends, that's when your journey truly begins. The week after the Camino, I went to Lisbon and the Algarve, gaining more adventures and unique encounters. While horseback riding, I met a British girl who was about to get married and was traveling solo in Portugal with her friends. While kayaking in the sea, I met a girl from Maine who worked in nonprofit operations in NYC; encouraged by her, I jumped into the icy cold sea for a swim and found so much joy. I felt the world opening up to me; I could carry my backpack and go anywhere, doing anything I wanted to do.
As Atlas said, my memories of the Camino fermented afterward, so much so that whenever I mention this journey, I can't help but tear up. I repeatedly recall the metaphors about life I encountered on the road. I also know I will return to this path, starting from St. Jean, to experience the Camino as described by those I met.
As for the rest—screw the societal clock! I know I will be decisive and avoid the mundane.
Plus, I’m never truly alone.