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 memories into words for long-term storage.
Background#
I first learned about the Camino de Santiago in my sophomore year when I took a course on Pilgrimage Literature with Professor Martha Collins. This course was perhaps one of my favorites during my entire college experience. 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 begun to accomplish the life milestones that 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 I was anxious, but vaguely knowing how to alleviate it: by creating a strong association between something that made me anxious and something I looked forward to, I would then anticipate the arrival of that anxiety-inducing event. So, when I turned thirty, I would walk the Camino!
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 last 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 great anticipation, the days passed until about a week before departure, when Atlas suddenly messaged me: "My grandfather passed away this morning, and I am 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 apart from my flight, I hadn't booked any accommodation or itinerary. So, I quickly booked my accommodation for the first day 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 hadn't learned 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. When I arrived at the platform, my anxiety lifted as it seemed the entire platform was filled with people carrying heavy backpacks, all marked with the Camino shell symbol.
On the train, a family of four sat next to me, chatting in a mix of Chinese and English, so I asked if they were also walking the Camino. The eldest aunt said yes and then warmly struck up a conversation with me. She was with her daughter, her sister, and her sister's daughter, and the four female family members had flown from California to Morocco for a week before coming together to complete the last five days of the pilgrimage. The aunt was probably in her seventies, very talkative, and during the three-hour journey, she shared stories about her family. What moved me the most was her mother’s story of how, in the 1940s, she traveled from a rural area in Jiangsu and Zhejiang to find her father, who had been conscripted. Although we didn't discuss many details, the image of a strong and brave woman came alive before me. Her story was as captivating as "The Garden of Autumn," and there were many times I felt tears welling up, desperately trying to hold them back.
After getting off the train, I stayed in Sarria that day, preparing to start hiking the next day, but the aunt's family had to walk another dozen 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, packing slowly for half the morning, and setting off at six-thirty. 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 thought I would have to search hard for the Camino, but almost as soon as I left the albergue, I saw some people who had already set off, carrying their backpacks northward, so I followed them and soon spotted the shell markers along the way.
It was still dark, and the streetlights illuminated the mist. Some small cafes had already opened, with one or two weary travelers standing inside. I quickly left the town and entered the country road, as the sky gradually brightened, passing through vast fields and woods. Everything around me felt new and exciting; I kept taking out my phone to take pictures of the tall, straight coniferous trees, the apricot trees lining the road, and I couldn’t help but smile at the cows and sheep.
A young man walking quickly passed by me and asked where I was from. I said China, and he smiled, then I received my first "Buen Camino" of the trip. It means "Have a good journey," a customary 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. What reassured me was that there were many female travelers walking the Camino alone, just like me, so I felt 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 passersby or excitedly chasing butterflies. Whenever a car passed by, I could hear his owner calling out "Max!" and then Max would slow down, dodge the car, and wait for his owner.
When I reached 14 kilometers, I stopped at a cafe by the roadside, ordered orange juice and a Spanish omelet. The omelet here was made of two huge, hard-baked pieces of bread with a large egg in between, so I took a long time to eat, jotting down a few notes in my journal before continuing my hike. It was around eleven in the morning, and the sun began to heat up, so I focused on making progress, completing the 22 kilometers for the day by about one o'clock and checking into a riverside albergue 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. I dropped off my backpack and strolled around the town. The sun was very strong, and there was a beautiful church and many white houses, reminiscent of scenes from many James Bond movies I had seen. I found a Spanish restaurant, sat down, and enjoyed a meal, ordering 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 midway to Leon, she found the scenery too beautiful, so she took a bus to visit some attractions, leisurely walking to Portomarin. I was wondering how she had so much time on the road, and she told me she was already retired and wanted to see the world while she still had time. I thought she was in her twenties, but she was actually over sixty!
I envy you! I said, you can travel the world without working! She replied, you’re doing great too, with two vacations a year to travel, and so 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 with her, I said goodbye and returned to the albergue. People were quietly resting, so I took my dirty clothes to the backyard and joined some older folks who were washing clothes, using a small plastic basin and soap to wash a quick-dry long-sleeve shirt, hanging it on the clothesline. The clothes of over a hundred people in the albergue were hanging unevenly on the backyard clotheslines, swaying gently in the wind, making me smile.
Day 2#
I originally thought it would be very 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 refreshed around four the next morning. 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.
It was pitch dark outside, and there was no one on the streets. I followed my phone's navigation to the edge of the 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 closing my backpack and securing the headlamp on my forehead, some pilgrims appeared nearby. A man and a woman 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 also 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 shared three headlamps, barely illuminating the path ahead within five meters. In the light, I could see the mist swirling like fine rain. It was very quiet around us, and 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 brighten, and I could see us alternating between passing through woods and fields. As it got brighter, I recognized some villages and shrines. There were still no other people on the road, and when I stopped to take pictures of the beautiful scenery in the fog, I noticed the other three slowed down too, perhaps taking out their phones or pausing to read the inscriptions on the milestones until everyone caught up.
Thus, we walked silently together for over two hours until the sky was fully bright, and the fog dissipated. The Southeast Asian gentleman slowed down, and the other two walked into a fork in the road to rest in a village, and we dispersed. The morning countryside unfolded before me as I walked toward the dawn, my hair damp from the mist, and the phrase "the dew is heavy" popped into my mind. I thought about how students in ancient times traveling to take the imperial examination might have felt, walking day after day for long periods. The 114-kilometer journey takes only an hour by car, but walking requires five days. If I were to set off from my hometown of Wuhan to Beijing for the exam, it might take me half a year on foot, with high mountains and long roads ahead, and an uncertain future. So those gatherings back then were precious, and 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, smoke and flowers in March descend to Yangzhou," and thought of my missed encounter with Atlas on the pilgrimage, feeling deeply moved.
When the sun had fully risen, I passed a sign. The phone 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 found myself on the ridge of a small hill, with 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 a song by Zhou Shen echoed in my mind: "Your eyes are filled with time, and behind you are stories unfolding," and tears quickly welled up.
I had originally hoped the Camino would provide me with some enlightenment, helping me transition from one state to a more ideal one. At that moment, I suddenly 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 12 kilometers, my feet began to tire, so I stopped at a small cafe by the roadside, gesturing to order a coffee and a Galician Pie. Since the lady at the cafe didn't speak English and I didn't speak Spanish, I wasn't sure if I had ordered food. After a long wait, 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 in confusion for a moment, 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 in and out. 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 with 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, then quickened 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. The uncle 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 also retired, interested in everything in the world, loved chatting, and had hiked all over the world. We spent a lot of time discussing 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, the uncle 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 left to Santiago and a week of vacation afterward, and I wanted 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 very quickly, and I reached my destination, Palas de Reis, by noon. The uncle still had another fifteen kilometers to go, 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 for privacy, making it much more comfortable than the previous two days. I had lunch, did laundry, 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 stop, 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, setting off around six-fifteen, with no 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 might be too short, while 30 kilometers was uncharted territory, so I hadn't booked accommodation in advance, thinking I would see how it went. I met an elderly lady at the youth hostel 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 particularly like exercising, not even walking her dog at home. Her husband had booked this pilgrimage trip for her to help her 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 elsewhere. But I love my hometown; Rio de Janeiro may not be very safe, but it's 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 was the church or St. James's tomb. She said she meant the experience of Santiago. She had met many people on the road, some of whom 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 together for four kilometers. Later, the lady said, "I'm only planning to walk to Melide today; you can go ahead if you want to walk more." So we exchanged "Buen Camino" and I continued on my way. The next few kilometers were lonely without anyone to chat with. Although I walked quickly, the process felt very long. By the time I reached ten kilometers, I was a bit hungry, so I stopped at a small shop for orange juice and Spanish 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, there was only thunder rumbling in the sky, but within five minutes, the rain began to pour down.
Before I set off, the weather forecast had said Galicia would have clear weather for the next two weeks, so to save weight, I had left my umbrella and soft-shell jacket out of my luggage, carrying only a two-dollar plastic raincoat from Walmart. Just as I covered myself and my backpack with the raincoat, the light rain turned into a downpour. Pedestrians stopped under the 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 bag, feeling neither my body nor my backpack was wet. I also passed a huge mural of Pope Francis and recalled hearing that this year was a significant year for pilgrimage due to his passing. I thought of the saying from ancient Shu about Zhuge Liang: "When Ge Gong was alive, no one felt different; 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 walk another 15 kilometers before dark, so I planned to reach Arzua for the night. The scenery along the way remained beautiful, but I gradually began to feel fatigued, 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; you walk your path and be your master. Looking down from the sky is a starry sky; you must act decisively 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 an hour, I reached Arzua, around two o'clock. I hung my washed clothes out to dry and took my journal to stroll around the town, looking for a place to write and eat ice cream. Then I looked for supplies for the road, but the supermarket I went to was too small. 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 agonizing over the same items in front of the shelf and ended up in line behind me. "We always buy the same things, right?" he said, with a slight Eastern European accent. "Yes, water, fruit, energy bars," we both said in unison.
The young man had also set off from Saint Jean Pied de Port and had been on the road for nearly a month, leaving the albergue at five-thirty every morning and reaching the next albergue by ten, giving him the whole day to reflect. I asked him how it felt as his journey was coming to an end. He said it wasn't over yet; after reaching Santiago, he still had to walk five more days 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. I regretted not asking him what he thought 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 time for contemplation. Each day, I was physically exhausted, my mind empty, and the usual worries felt far away, leaving me with no motivation to think deeply.
As I pondered this, I slowly made my way to the albergue. Just a few steps from the door, a ragged, dark-skinned man passed by. At first, I didn't pay him any mind, 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, shocked. In these days, I hadn't associated the simple and honest countryside of Spain with racial discrimination. The simple state of goodness and beauty I had experienced on the road suddenly vanished, pulling me back into the reality of the 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 resolve.
Perhaps I needed to relax, not rush, and take my time to experience the journey.
Day 4#
That morning, I again woke up at five-thirty, packed my things, and ate the croissant and orange I had bought the day before before setting off, which was already close to seven. At the start of the day, I felt quite weary of hiking because the miraculous transformation described in movies had not happened to me; my life would continue as usual. The road had lost its magic, and I began to contemplate the infrastructure along the way and its economic effects. It was just a beginner-level hiking route, I thought; what other meaning could it have?
As I walked, I vented to my friends on my phone. I didn't even know why I was walking this road, I said. My friend replied:
"People can't always be on the road for so long; you just need to care about your physical endurance. 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 have 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; its significance may ferment in retrospect!" It turned out they were both prophets.
Around eight kilometers in, I stopped for a coffee, and my mindset shifted again. Watching the numbers on the milestone 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 gradually 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 aunt's family from the train! I couldn't believe I had run into them again! So, it wasn't just unique encounters on the road; there could also be reunions! We chatted all the way, sharing our experiences from the past few days, and before long, we entered the town.
When I arrived at 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 our separate ways to freshen up and eat. When I returned to the 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 had 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 might have thought that Asians would communicate more easily 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, couldn't speak English, and there was a Japanese girl whose eyes were glued to her phone. Taking the opportunity to go to the bathroom, I passed by her bed and complimented 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 plan 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, etc. The transportation in between could be by bus, train, or plane; it would take eight hours to get from A to B, but if I stopped at point C, each leg could take only three hours, but the accommodation prices varied in each place. Should I rent a car? But I couldn't return it in a foreign country, and so on. Without prior planning, I felt overwhelmed. I frowned as I looked at travel guides all night, ultimately giving up on planning ahead. Forget it; I’ll just see how it goes.
With just one day left to Santiago, I felt a bit of homesickness and didn't want to arrive at the destination alone. So, I messaged the two girls from Paris I had met on the road, arranging to have dinner together after we arrived.
Day 5#
Due to anxiety over my travel plans, I didn't sleep well the night before, waking up again at five-thirty. By then, most of the people in the room, including the Hong Kong girl, had already left. When I stepped out of the albergue at six-thirty, it was still dark. I walked a couple of steps and encountered a somewhat confused-looking aunt 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 aunt was Mexican and had 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, allowing him to sleep a bit longer and catch up with her on the road to complete the day’s journey together. I asked the aunt why she decided to walk the Camino. She said that when she was in her early twenties and had just moved to Canada, she worked in the tourism industry and often hosted guests from Spain. At that time, many people would say that the Camino was beautiful and recommended she try it. Later, she met her future partner, started a family, and decades passed in the blink of an eye. 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 birthday afterward, he would gift her outdoor gear, sometimes a backpack, sometimes a sleeping bag, gradually collecting everything she needed.
This year, the young man saved enough money, quit his job, and the aunt accumulated enough vacation time, so they set off together. The aunt said, "I admire my son for being 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 path, I became afraid to leave, worried about giving up the resources and development I had accumulated. After getting married and having children, I had even less opportunity 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 aunt said that compared to here, people in North America seem to have more possessions, but they want even more. However, during this month on the road, I learned that people need very little. A small bed, some simple food, and a hot shower make me 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. I had left my trekking poles behind due to concerns about luggage weight, 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 throbbed, 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 still felt quite torturous. The 10-kilogram backpack I carried every day had accumulated its toll, and I felt pain all over.
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 little surprise; it was a hotel 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 rested until four before heading to the Pilgrim Office to collect the certificate for this journey. The town of Santiago was charming, and I strolled through small shops buying souvenirs, leisurely obtaining my certificate and completing this journey. By then, the PhD girls had also arrived, and we took photos in front of the cathedral, enjoying an Italian meal 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 had originally thought that after dinner, I would miss the evening mass at the cathedral, 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. "We meet 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 exiting the church.
"Do you have any plans for the evening?" she asked. "I don't," I replied. "How about you?"
"I want to go have dinner," she said.
"I've already eaten, but I can eat again," I said. So we went to a Chinese restaurant, ordering spicy stir-fried intestines and dry pot cauliflower, sitting 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 travel to various countries in Europe. She even went to Kyiv in Ukraine. "But isn't there a war going on there?" I was surprised. "I just wanted to seize the opportunity!" she said, then described 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 also found you very impressive because everyone else rushes to wash 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 on the day I arrived in Madrid when I walked to the Egyptian Temple on the west side of the city to watch the sunset. The hillside 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. I felt like one of those birds, my joy soaring into the sky, rushing toward freedom. Then I described another moment, a cross-temporal dialogue I had at 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 living far from home was difficult for me. I replied, "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 won't end," she said.
However, the people we repeatedly encounter 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 she hesitated 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 have answers. Just like the Taiwanese aunt told me to respect my job on the first day, and the Mexican aunt said to see the world early on the last day, they expressed opposing ideas, yet 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 such thing as "that road"; only walking your own path has meaning.
In Spain, it doesn't get dark until ten in the summer, but when I looked toward 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 ideas; you will definitely find your own answers." I replied, "You too! Wishing you all the best in the future." Then we parted ways, walking in opposite directions in the night. On the way to the monastery, I felt 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 felt tears welling up.
I recalled my twenty-year-old self. Back then, I wanted to be an exchange student in Germany, but out of fear of the unknown, I made up a bunch of excuses like my German wasn't good enough and I wouldn't finish my major courses, ultimately not trying. I wondered if I had truly set off to walk the Camino when I was twenty, would my life trajectory have been very different? 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 decade from twenty to thirty that gave me enough energy to embark on this journey. And how fortunate I was, how fortunate I was to finally arrive here!
Epilogue#
The day after completing the last 114 kilometers of the Camino, I took the bus to Porto, Portugal, following the advice 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! Porto Cathedral, this is the starting point of the Portuguese route of the Camino! Amidst countless 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 owner of the voice was also a Chinese girl, and she asked if I was also here to walk the Camino. I said, "I just finished the French route yesterday." She told me she would set off from here to walk the Portuguese route the next day. We took photos together to commemorate the moment, and then she got busy editing the pictures, so I quietly walked away.
"Hey," the girl called out to me again. "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 in Portugal with her friends for a bachelorette trip. While kayaking in the sea, I met a girl from Maine who worked in nonprofit operations in NYC; with her encouragement, I jumped into the icy cold sea for a swim, experiencing a lot of 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 every time 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 that 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 act decisively and avoid the mundane.
Plus, I’m never truly alone.