by Kurt Koontz
At least 1,500 people packed into the cathedral to celebrate the noon service. No seats were available but I but found a nice location with a view. I had not been in my position for more than a few minutes when a door opened and nine robed men and a nun began the short procession to the altar. The nun sang the vespers to begin the service, her single voice filling the entire church. Since the service was in Spanish, I could not comprehend the words but did feel at home inside the huge space. During the mass, I mingled up and down the aisles outside of the pews. My eyes welled with tears each time I made eye contact with pilgrims I had met along the way.
At the end of the service, eight men in maroon robes made their way toward the five-foot-tall, 175-pound botafumeiro filled with charcoal and incense. It hung by a thick rope attached to an ancient wheeled pulley mechanism at the dome above the altar. The other end of the rope hooked to a pillar in the cathedral. The tiraboleiros unraveled the long thick rope and moved to the area below the altar. They formed a circle to grasp individual cords attached to the main rope. In unison and with tremendous power, their bodies contorted to pull the rope to the ground followed by a movement that maximized the distance between their feet and hands holding the ropes. Their graceful movements reminded me of a ballet. They repeated this process as the canister began to swing back and forth like a pendulum across the cathedral at speeds reaching 40 miles per hour. The arc of the botafumeiro reached 71 yards. The cathedral doors were opened to provide some ventilation for the massive clouds of smoke. Tears streamed out of my eyes as I witnessed one of the most beautiful scenes in my entire life
After the service, a couple looked at me and pointed to their camera. I thought they wanted me to take a picture of them. As I tried to take their camera, they pulled away from me. We did this about three times before I realized they wanted to take a picture of me. In my boots and hat, with my pack on my back, I must have looked like the quintessential peregrino. Once I understood what they wanted, I was happy to pose. After their camera snapped, it set off a flood of people doing the same thing. This paparazzi moment was pretty humorous, especially knowing, as I did, the great diversity of Camino pilgrims.
While meandering around the church, I saw many friends who had found a special place in my heart during the previous month. Some of these people included Zenira, Bonnie, Alberto, Fred, Eugina, Melinda, Mikkel, Judith, Nicole, and the Glendas. Several additional hugs were shared with people who I recognized but could not name.
At last, I took a short walk to the pilgrim’s office to collect my Compostela. I climbed two flights of stairs and waited in line for a few minutes. When it was my turn, an assistant escorted me to a small counter where a man asked me a few questions. He viewed my credential stamps and generated my certificate of completion. The first name always has a Latin reference and mine was printed as “Conradum.” On October 11, I became one of several million people to have walked the Camino de Santiago. Contentment filled my soul. Walking out of the office, the sense of loss associated with arrival turned into a feeling of another new beginning.
I made arrangements to meet my South African friends Annette and Melinda in the cathedral square at 6:30 that evening. With a great feeling of satisfaction, I began the search for my luxury hotel.
En route to the hotel, I found a shipping service to transport my beloved Duran safely to Boise. The fee was 15 times the walking stick’s original cost. I would have paid more. He was destined for a few nights wrapped in brown paper in a cardboard box while waiting for Fed Ex to complete the trip to Idaho. Exiting the store without my pal was like losing an appendage. The lack of “clack” was deafening.
The NH Obradoiro was about a 10-minute walk from the Cathedral. The exterior of the hotel looked like a metallic gray rectangular box. The sleek black windows gave it an added touch of class. The extremely clean lobby presented an edgy sense of modern refinement. It reminded me of the Nines Hotel in Portland where Roberta and I had celebrated her birthday a few months before.
My king-sized bed was covered with thick white linen and topped with a green blanket along the bottom edge. A cream-colored canopy covered the ceiling above the bed. The bathroom was crisp and modern. There were so many buttons and gadgets in the shower that I almost called the front desk for directions on how to obtain warm water. After getting situated, I found a comfortable spot on the gigantic bed and pondered the events of the last month. It was hard to imagine that my personal history now included the walk on the Camino de Santiago.
At 6:30, I met my friends in front of the cathedral. We walked through the maze of shops and restaurants that crowd the area by the cathedral. It took about five minutes to find the perfect dinner location on an outdoor patio of a nice café. Before we had a chance to order, Mikkel and Fred happened by and immediately joined us for dinner. After the meal, I made a date with Annette and Melinda for a final coffee in the morning.
Back at the palace, I used every possible amenity at the hotel. I went to the spa where I roasted in the sauna and melted in the steam room. In between warm chambers, I took a cooling dip in the indoor pool. Throughout this entire period, my mind and body were having king-sized fantasies about a king-sized bed. Sheets with an actual thread count awaited me in room 305.
Day 29 and 30
Two Days and Home
I began the next day with the same sauna, steam, and pool routine. It was strange to face a day without the obligatory average of 17 miles of walking ahead of me. I left the hotel with a short walk to simply meet some friends for coffee. I had not even a hint of a plan for what would happen after enjoying the java. I felt naked and liberated to be walking without a pack, and Duran’s absence filled my heart with sorrow. I was hopeful that Fed Ex had upgraded his seat for the journey across the Atlantic.
Five minutes into the walk, I looked up and saw the back of the eighteenth-century Convento de San Francisco. From my vantage point, I saw four red clay tiled roofs tiered toward the sky. Large brownstone rectangular rocks provided a break between the sea of red coverings. Two bell towers stretched toward the blue sky.
I arrived at the tiny café a few minutes before the scheduled time. There were only seven tables, three on the first floor and four on the second. Old and noisy stairs linked the two tiers. Upstairs I saw my friends Steve and Mary Beth. I had walked with them a few weeks before and had never expected to see them again. The reunion brought a smile to all our faces. I enjoyed their company until Annette and Melinda arrived. Three cups of café con leche and one gigantic chocolate éclair served as the last meal with these lovely ladies. I wondered if there would once again be another time.
It was very difficult to say goodbye to Melinda and Annette. Our paths had crossed many times since we had first met on my new-shoes day. It is difficult to explain how or why the bonds formed, but it really does not matter. In the end, they were strong and present. We had parted many times, but this one was final. I think we all suppressed tears while heading in different and distinct directions.
It was getting close to noon, so I decided to go back for another Pilgrim’s Mass. My real intent was to get a nice photo of the swinging botafumeiro. I strategically positioned myself at the perfect location for the shot and waited for the service to begin. I looked across the room and found the spot I had occupied during the previous day’s service. I expected to see the door open and a small stream of priests make their way toward the stage. To my surprise, I heard a commotion directly behind me.
It became readily apparent that this was a deluxe service in honor of the national holiday. A steady stream of men, all clad in white robes, began flowing behind me. I was situated at a 90-degree turn, so had no idea as to the length of the seemingly endless procession. A few altar boys with small, incense-filled botafumeiros separated the two distinct lines of men. Before I was able to comprehend what was happening, the majestic sound of a Gregorian chant flooded every square inch of the church. One man’s solo was a
nswered in unison by at least 200 men. The procession continued for 15 minutes before ending at the altar. I did get some good shots of the swinging silver pot, but it paled in comparison to the unexpected treat of this sacred music, dating back to the ninth and tenth centuries.
I later learned that the use of the swinging botafumeiro began in the eleventh century. Incense had long been burned in Catholic masses as a form of prayer. Historians suggest that monks may have begun to swing it aloft because they believed the smoke would help prevent plague and disease. At Santiago, the incense burners may have grown in size and smoke to help mask the smells of the pilgrims who arrived after weeks or months without baths!
During the service, I waited in a short line leading downstairs to a crypt below the altar. I viewed a silver reliquary holding what is believed to be the remains of the apostle St. James. Fewer than a dozen people were in the small room. But I could not breathe, thinking about the millions of people, of all faiths, who have been drawn here on pilgrimage to contemplate the meaning of their lives.
After the service, I decided to temporarily set contemplation aside and go looking for food and a good book. The tourist office helped me identify a shop that carried books written in English. On the way to the bookshop, I passed a Burger King. I have never been much for fast food, but on this day so far and long from home, I completely devoured a double Whopper with cheese and a mountain of onion rings. At the bookstore, I purchased a copy of The Catcher in the Rye, then found a nice place to enjoy the book and a café con leche.
I ran into Mikkel and Fred. I said another final goodbye to Mikkel, who planned to continue walking to Finisterre on the coast before returning to his handicapped students in Denmark.
On the way back to the hotel, I found an Internet shop with telephones. I called Roberta and my brother. Roberta was glad to hear my voice, but the physical distance between us was dwarfed by the feeling of emotional separation.
I had a quiet lunch way off the beaten trail where I was the lone patron. The owner of the restaurant was pleased to have me in his establishment. It was a nice meal, but heavy thoughts about the call to Roberta were still swirling in my head.
I spent the afternoon and evening on my own, thinking about my future with or without Roberta. She was still the love of my life. I wanted to be with her and change the tides of our relationship. An ebb and flow had always been present, but over the past year, Roberta had slowly withdrawn from me, spending more and more time alone at her home, declining more and more of my invitations. I worried that she wanted to break up with me, but did not want to hurt my feelings. Throughout the year, I had tried to get things back on track, but nothing seemed to be successful. During this trip, I had morphed into a different person. I wondered if my absence would result in her desire for a closer connection or a complete separation. With all of my heart, I hoped for the former.
My final day in Santiago began with a delicious brunch at the NH Obradoiro followed by a familiar stroll toward the Cathedral. At a blind intersection next to a stairway, I came face to face with Jesse and James from Australia. We shared hugs, and then on cue, they began to sing the Happy Little Vegemites song. I had a similar moment with the two Glendas later that day.
My fast pace of walking had continually pushed me forward on the trail to meet new people. Now I was having the pleasure of seeing many of these fellow pilgrims before we returned to our homes around the world.
On the final walk back to the hotel, I took a last tour through the empty Cathedral de Santiago. It had already seen millions of pilgrims and was sure to see millions more. I celebrated their arrivals in my thoughts and hoped that their journeys would mean as much to them as mine did to me.
On October 14, 2012, I broke my 30-day walking streak by entering a cab that carried me to the airport in Santiago. Again, it was hard to imagine that I had walked by this place just three days earlier. I flew to Madrid, spent the night in a hotel by the airport, and flew home on October 15, 2012.
As the plane approached the Boise terminal, I looked back with amusement to my thoughts about the trip five weeks before. I had left for this adventure with just a few questions on my mind. Now I was returning with a plethora!
The final leg of my journey consisted of 20 hours on various planes and in various airports. My last flight arrived in Boise at eleven o’clock at night. The most beautiful woman in the entire world, Roberta, was there to meet me.
Afterword
A few days after my return to Boise, I stepped into Idaho Mountain Touring with one Patagonia Drifter, a copy of my receipt, and a photo of the other shoe resting on the Camino marker across the Atlantic Ocean. After telling my short story, the salesman assured me that no matter the circumstances, the shoes were guaranteed for more than two weeks of walking. The clerk called Patagonia from the counter while I waited. I hope the person at the other end of the phone line enjoyed the story as much as the guy at the local store. The company sent me a new pair of shoes.
After less than five weeks of walking, nearly all my friends and family commented on my changed physical appearance. I knew that some weight, both physical and emotional, had been left in Spain, but when I stepped on my bathroom scale, I was shocked to see the number 197. My weight on Sept 11 had been 215. I had lost 18 pounds on the Camino! My skinny jeans were loose, and the slightest tug on my regular jeans risked pulling them past my buttocks with the button and zipper still engaged. I bought two new pairs of jeans but kept the old ones, as the weight will surely creep back onto my body.
One of the unexpected difficulties was running into friends who asked about the trip. My short, standard answer was, “It was great.” For many people, that was enough, and they were off to the races. When people asked for more detail, I offered to take them to coffee or lunch for a much more detailed explanation. After many of these conversations, I noticed that there were many common questions. I made notes of these inquiries and used them as a basis for a presentation that I have since shared with numerous business and community groups. With slides (mainly photos) to illustrate, I cover the mechanics of a trip, the history of the Camino, the personal lessons learned, and, most importantly, how I have incorporated these into my daily life.
I had no eureka moments on the Camino. At kilometer marker 348.6, I uncovered no little vault with all the answers to life. Instead, just like life, I experienced a series of meaningful and small insights. I believe we all have an internal light, and the Camino acts as a rheostat to greatly increase the intensity. With care and awareness, I hope to keep that light glowing brightly until my last breath.
I continue to treasure the small moments that make up each and every day. A simple smile, a nice cup of coffee, a beautiful sunset, or some random act of kindness provides fuel for my light. When it all becomes too hard, I still use my “refresh” move, walking in a circle, with or without my walking stick, to get a completely new perspective.
I am letting go of worry. Chronic worrying is detrimental to happiness. It is impossible to be happy and to worry at the same time. It is like trying to view a sunset with pirate patches covering both eyes. A friend sent me a simple poem about worry from an unknown author that sums up my newfound attitude:
For every problem under the sun
There is a solution or there is none
If there’s a solution go and find it
If there isn’t never mind it
For many years, people had extolled the virtues of deleting worry from my life. This was easy to say, but difficult to implement. During my million steps of reflection on the Camino, I spent some quality time focusing on the significant portion of my life that had been completely wasted on worrying about things outside of my control. The only thing we ultimately control is our reaction to events in our lives. I am spending much more time aligning myself with what is happening as opposed to trying to control what will or will not occur.
We all have our st
rategies for preventing worry in our lives. For starters, I eliminated all network and cable news from my life. Cold turkey! This is not a plea for putting your head in the sand. But reading a few headlines from the Wall Street Journal, New York Times, and Washington Post provides me with ample material to stay abreast of current events. The best part of reading is that I get to choose how to react instead of being told by a talking head. This liberation has taken my heart rate down.
Another of my foundations for keeping the light aglow is to live in the Now. It is impossible to eliminate the past or avoid all pleasant or unpleasant memories. However, when I visit my past now, I try to go in, learn, and get the hell out! I am not going to be anchored by some event or trauma from my past. The same goes with the future. While hopes and dreams for a bright forecast are always present, I refuse to walk the rest of my life with eyes solely focused on the horizon. I yield to the current moment.
Signs and faith in signs were very important throughout my journey. Walking nearly 500 miles through a foreign land without a map, dependent on little yellow arrows, can wrack anyone’s nerves. By letting go of the worry and placing trust in the arrows, I became confident that I would eventually arrive in Santiago. No need to question or overthink these little arrows. There were two times that I lost the Camino, each lasting for less than one kilometer. Within 100 steps, I knew in my head and heart that I was on the wrong path.
In the busy world of today, there are signs everywhere that will lead us down a path of contentment. Be open to the signs, listen to your heart, and act on the message. If you are in the wrong job, wrong relationship, or wrong country, there is probably a big neon sign begging you for change. Listen and change. There are an equivalent number of neon markers that point to a positive path. While going through life, pay attention to these affirming signs and keep marching forward with passion and enthusiasm.