SANTANDER

By the time I returned from my short tour of the Cathedral and adjacent streets, the albergue was filling up. It was just one large room of bunks, two semi-broken computers, and a small kitchen, where one could do laundry. I had a bunk near the window, which opened into the rear of the building forming a sort of courtyard, but really just a space for the mechanical systems for the buildings round it, and a way for light to enter. It was black with dust and grease, and apart from harbouring a few pigeons, and laundry, it was a wasteland. Not exactly an inspiring hangout.

Richard, the Canadian, and I went to the cafe near the albergue for an early supper and then into the evening streets, where, it being Semana Santa, Holy Week,
we encountered a religious procession, complete with solemn, hooded penitents, young and old, in rich regalia. The huge, ornate silver litter was lit by lanterns at the corners, and surmounted by a statue of the Virgin, in her dolorous persona. This, and the crowds, were all far outside my experience of Easter. I tried to capture the event on film, but try as I would, I couldn't get a shot in focus.





This was a metaphor for my state of mind at the time. I felt I was losing my focus entirely. I have a friend from my first Camino who described perfectly the trajectory of the pilgrim experience by describing four stages of the pilgrim's state of mind while on the Camino. The first is, Oh, Isn't This Interesting! The second is, What the Hell am I Doing Here? I had most definitely entered Stage Two. I wasn't a religious pilgrim, per se, and so the hardships of reaching the goal of Santiago de Compostela were not part of a sacrifice that I could dedicate to God. I wasn't an endurance athlete, so "no pain, no gain", "no guts, no glory" didn't really pertain either. But, I wasn't really just a tourist either; I didn't just want to head off to something else. I wanted to walk this walk, but I wasn't enjoying this part of it at all. I felt that, in revivifying the ancient route, whoever was in charge in Cantabria had missed the point. Maybe the ancient Camino route WAS the same as that of the current highway, and maybe tradition had its place, but maybe, I thought, there ought to be some leeway to ensure pilgrim safety and the health of our legs. So much traffic and pavement meant a less than pleasant sojourn, for me, at least. I had been warned, by the guidebooks, by the internet, and by Ernesto. I'd been sure I would be able to handle it, but so far, I hadn't got used to it, and I liked it less every day. The wonderful experiences of the coastal sections weren't quite enough to make putting up with the rest of it something I was happy to do. Sure, it was instructive to see how modern times were changing the face of the world, and almost never for the better, but I knew that already. If I'd wanted to go for a walk by the side of a secondary highway, I could have stayed home. I see that even now, a year later, I'm ranting a bit. If the Camino is a metaphor for the Walk of Life, I guess there are bound to be rough patches here and there. Pilgrims, even second timers, even waffly agnostics, expect the Camino to be unremittingly uplifting. I remember a conversation I had with a Danish woman on my first Camino. "When do we get to have insight?" she asked "I'm travelling with my three sisters, and its all about planning where to eat and where to sleep!" "First World Problem", my kids would say. To myself I say, "Suck it Up, Princess!" There, I consider myself lectured.