The day before

It was the day before The Day, “the day” being my arrival in Santiago de Compostela. I had been on the road—the dirt path mostly, the rocky trail sometimes, the paved road occasionally—since September 23. It was now October 25.

I could barely remember not being on the Camino, not waking before dawn and walking, my back to the sunrise, into the dark western horizon. Tomorrow it would come to an end. I was relieved. I wanted to sleep in a big bed in a room all by myself. I wanted to wear a pair of pants I had not worn every day for more than a month. I wanted to eat an enormous salad.

But I was also saddened. Tomorrow this tough but sublimely uncomplicated life, this single-focused, time-out-of-time, would end.

I had learned, I had delighted in, the fact that the monotony of the Camino was interrupted by surprises every single day. Some surprises were small, like coming upon the extravagantly feathered pheasants in the courtyard of little restaurant in Hospital de Orbigo. Some were big surprises, like today, the day before The Day.

Kiki and I had decided to walk all the way to Lavacolla, a very long day, because that would mean a short walk into Santiago the next morning. Morning was magic time. I wanted that for the arrival. Lavacolla, said Kiki (who knew everything—both her strength and her weakness), was where pilgrims of old stopped to cleanse themselves before entering the holiness of Santiago. Lavacolla could be translated as washing the colon. Or rectum. Or so she said.

We walked. Oh lordy, did we walk. The weather was unforgiving. Sheeting rain. Poncho–drenching rain. We arrived at the village in the late afternoon, soaked and starving, only to discover that the accommodation we had so carefully booked was not, in fact, located in the village of Lavacolla. We would need to walk another—really, I no longer remember—4, 5 kilometers. Uphill. Did I mention the rain?

When we finally crested the last hill and neared where the place supposedly was, it was dark. We saw nothing. No lights. No streets. No settlement. We were drenched. Am I belaboring the point? Perhaps. We finally happened upon the place, hidden down a dark path, unpromising, and presented our pitiful selves to the innkeeper.

The room was warm. The shower was hot. Miraculously, the hostel had a lovely restaurant, which Kiki later quite correctly called “needlessly amazing.” We splurged, ordering a huge pan of paella to share. And we bravely asked if the kitchen could make us pimientos de padrón for a starter (a dish both of us loved with a passion not normally associated with food). Yes, said our needlessly handsome waiter. We washed it all down with two glasses of very good vino tinto.

It was by far the best meal of the entire journey.