Soul-Crushingly Awkward

The clouds have lost the fight with the sun as I leave the San Marcos sports bar, the last hamlet, and the final kilometers of my Camino. I’m unaware that these will be the longest five kilometers of my Camino because I’ve yet to reconcile with the end.

My legs easily submit to the incline toward yet another chapel of great antiquity, but before I reach it, my peripheral view is taken hostage by an assuming monument to my left. The blue sky, feather-stroked with white luminous clouds, makes the towering structure irresistible.

I approach Monte do Gozo (Hill of Joy), camera-ready, yet two very large people are lunching on a bench, obstructing one of the four sides. I put my camera away and walk around the structure with my eyes set to wide-angle. Beginning at the base, I visually scale its wall to the swirling steel pedestal supporting a three-dimensional glass cross adorned with scallop shells. Built in 1993, it memorializes both Pope John Paul’s last mass given here in 1989, and the 13th century pilgrimage of Saint Francis of Assisi. One Spanish author referred to it as soul-crushingly awful. On one side is a likeness of Saint Francis holding a lifelike basket nearly overflowing with small pilgrim offerings. I add a tiny acorn with a scallop shell and 2012 drawn on it to the collection.

A woman approaches me as if she knows me. She hands me her camera, and in broken English, asks me to take a photo of her against the Gozo. Being a solitary traveller, I always agree. In universal sign language she motions for my camera. The result is me against the Hill of Joy with a carefree smile. Most pictures tell the whole story, but this one conceals that I have no idea how to feel about how I’m feeling.

I return to the side facing Santiago to find the large woman still on the bench but the large man is pointing out our unified destination to another pilgrim, who thanks him and walks on. I step in closer to see what he saw, just when the man – a big fat jolly angel in disguise – locks on to me and motions for me go to him. I’m compelled as if a toddler walking into my mother’s outstretched arms. He speaks to me in Spanglish as he puts one arm around me and lifts the other toward Santiago. “¿Mirar, there, espiral catedral, see, sí?” he asks, pointing over the eucalyptus trees. My eyes follow his arm to the end of his chubby finger to the tallest spire of the cathedral. I break free from his embrace, thank him, and walk away quickly. I conceal myself behind the chapel and lean against the cold gritty wall unable to stop the tears.

“Enough,” I demand aloud, while shaking my head. I adjust my pack for the benefit of any onlookers. I angrily ask myself, “Why are you crying?” and that plugs the dam. I step into the breeze which turns my tears into streams of invisible salty crust.