Conxo

Many pilgrims go barreling into the Santiago de Compostela square, or rather, limping really fast into the square. It’s a ‘horse near the barn’ sort of excitement. But some of us are loath to arrive, because that means the journey has ended.

I am slow to leave my accommodation on the edge of the city, but do finally get going. I’m in the urban landscape now; no trees, but I find some flowers for my hat. I’m following my GPS, figuring it will get me back to the actual Camino at some point. Instead, it takes me to a square with a large church.

It can’t be Santiago de Compestela. I’ve seen pictures. This church is smaller and less ornate. But I’ve been visiting all of them along the way, so I don’t want to miss this last one. I enter. There, center stage where usually the alter features Jesus on the cross, or maybe some saint is….

Mary.

I look around, and every statue in the place is dedicated to her. I think I might be making this up. I wander around a bit. Everything is Mary. I sit in a pew near the front. A woman sits behind me and begins the melodic chanting of a Catholic prayer. And then (I am not making this up.) A white robed priest lights two alter candles. I sit a while, stunned, thinking of that kismet that seems to have followed me all these days. I go outside to check the statuary.there’s a,ways a carved saint or two outside the churches here. There she is, over the door, young, looking down over the square with a beatific smile.

My pilgrimage is ended, right here, at a church I’ve wandered into. I’ll go to the church of Saint James, get my certificate, take the requisite photos, but this stumbled-upon place is my perfect ending.

I’m trying to think, to understand, why Mary has been a motif in my travels. I’m not religious. I don’t think she’s trying to bring me to Jesus. But she is the perfect representation of feminine suffering, sorrow, and…ultimately…grace. I’ve been wallowing in the first two. I came seeking the third.

I get it. Thanks, Lady.

I finish the walk, arrive at the massive cathedral, and do the photo thing. I line up for my computer generated, Latin credential. I have a proud moment when the volunteer checking my pilgrims passport unravels it and sees all the stamps.

“Where did you start?”
“Porto.”
“When?”
“May 1.”

He raises his eyebrows and frowns - the universal sign for ‘I’m impressed.’ He says a word in Spanish I don’t know, but I’m going to assume it means “badass.”

I visit the statue of James and leave my Kory rock and the red rose from my hat among the shells and photos and offerings of other pilgrims. It hurts a little, and I cry a little; but I did most of my grieving yesterday.

I check into the Air B&B I will share with my boys when they get here tonight. I wander the square a bit. I take the rooftop tour of the cathedral, which turns out NOT to be a tour in which you look at the roof but one in which you walk across it. It’s beautiful and terrifying and windy as hell.

Jake and Nick get to our rooms at 6 p.m., and I hug them so hard I could pop their heads off their bodies. We are The Hansens. We are rock solid. We are a team. Don’t mess.

Later, Nick and I are too late to get a cathedral pew to watch the massive botafumeiro swing down the aisle spewing incense. Bummer.

Nick goes back to the room while I wander the streets looking for souvenirs I get a bumper sticker for my car and an ornament for my tree. I stop in a silver shop and ask for a small pendant of Mary. The guy behind the counter unrolls 3 feet of felt, filled with medallions. Turns out, there have been tons of apparitions from Mary over the centuries. She visits a lot. The Catholics have approved nearly two dozen apparitions. I ask him if he has Senora de Dolores.

“No.”

This makes sense. She’d be a sad gal to wear around your neck with all those daggers to the heart. I wear out the guy’s patience asking about the various Marys. Do I want a Fatima? A Lourdes? I see one about the right size and examine it. There are rays of light shooting from her hands. She is, according to my later research, an apparition from France in 1830. The rays represent the graces Mary gives. On the back of the medal is a predominant M for Mary, among other things.

Avengers Mary? With grace as her superpower? Sold! The frazzled shop owner closes up behind me.

In another store, I pick up a patch for my backpack featuring an embroidered Santiago cathedral and the words “No suenos tu vida. Vive Tues suenos.”

I’m confused. I can’t remember the word suenos . Is it something about sad pain?And the patch is about living with it? That can’t be right. I ask the salesperson.

“No,” she says, translating, “Do not dream your life. Live your dreams.”

Oh. Well then.

I’ll take that one.Read more