Essays about places that aren’t my home.
Santiago de Compostela is the end of the pilgrimage. But it can not be. On the 38th day of the trip, I woke with a smile and packed my bag again (my compostela already wrinkling in its ziploc bag) and walked to the cathedral. I stood before it, and prayed, and turned, and continued in…
Continue reading ➞ To the End of the Earth and the Coast of Death
I stumbled across a poem by Constantine Petrou Cavafy called Ithaka. As I walked, I memorized an English translation of it, and it’s served as a guide throughout the Camino, urging me on when I'm unmotivated, slowing me down when I rush, inviting me to enjoy myself when I'm afraid of spending money, reminding me…
On the 36th day of the journey, I left the albergue in Monte do Gozo alone, before six o’clock. I wanted to do the last 4.8 kilometers just with God. I was wearing my best clothes: my one dress and my Smartwool sweater. I was eating a yellow plum. The camino was poorly marked, and…
What is the difference between mist and fog? Whatever it was, it loomed around us five this morning in the eucalyptus, mint, nettles, and oak. Two Spanish friends joined us and we were seven, and there were 19 kilometers left to go. That would have been a short walk, but we planned to go only…
Today we crossed the marker that is 100 kilometers from Santiago: we are very, very close. Now, there are new people on the road walking the final 100 kilometers required to acquire a compostela in Santiago. Now, there are tour buses. Now, we must be careful not to be smug and think our blisters are…
On the 27th day of the journey I woke up in Rabanal, a gorgeous, steep stone town with an asymmetrical old Romanesque church where monks sing the liturgy of the hours and you can sit in the crumbling, asymmetrical Romanesque church to hear them. Before setting out I went to hear them sing Lauds at…
Spain haunts me. Even when I was on the Camino, even in the first days of it, I dreaded leaving. I met someone who hadn't. It's early on, in Estella, barely a week in. I turn onto a cobblestone street with looming walls. A tall man with bleached hair and tan skin is playing a…
The journey's too big. Too many details are on this single line we are walking, and too many people are on this single line, and this line is too old and has too much history, and there is too much beauty on this path, and too much boredom and it’s cruel to do this, to…
On the 25th day of the walk, I woke early and left Villar de Mazarife quickly. In a couple hours, I had gone 14 kilometers and the sun was only starting to come into its own as I ducked into a bar for coffee and a piece of cake. I saw a few people I…
Sometimes I think, this is what it must be like out there. In the Midwest. The Great Plains or the Badlands or something. I don't know. I've never been to the Midwest. But the Meseta, this flat, seemingly infinite plateau hogging Northern Spain, seems as close as I'll get to it. Here are flies. Here's…
Ermita San Nicolas is a pilgrim hospital with about 800 years of hospitality stuck up in its walls. “There is no electricity,” Iulio warned me when I checked in. He had blue eyes and blonde hair and perfectly lilting, broken English. “There is no wifi and the bathroom is outside. At 7:30 we perform a…
Today was the first day on the Meseta. I walked alone all day. I walked 31.5 kilometers which is about 19 miles. I began the day thinking deep thoughts: how can I make money? Will I always be single? What’s wrong with me? What’s right with me? Am I making the most of this time?…
Chelsea the Writer 