Yellow Arrows, Scallop Shells

The bustle of the citizens of Santiago is evidence that they have either forgotten or become complacent with residing in one of the world’s most sacred places. I pass people as they get on with the tasks at hand, while I, it seems, remain invisible. I look into the cafes searching for any sign of my tribe. There are no piles of mochillas or clustered batones in umbrella stands, and I realize it’s been hours since I’ve seen a Menu del Peregrino (pilgrim menu of the day) sign. I try to look both independent and lost, thinking it’s a universal cry for direction. It has worked for me in the other places. I catch my reflection in a shop window, which confirms that I am seeable. I continue down and around, and down and around some more.

I’ve tried to avoid uncertainty by studying the guidebook, but it tells me very little about outer-Santiago. There is an uncertainty I’ve grown mildly comfortable with after passing though hundreds of villages and hamlets. It’s the not knowing what my stopping place looks like until I arrive, which also means I could walk right through or past it completely. Knowing this makes me watchful as I finish the last miles of the day. I don’t have that problem today because I’ve seen too many images of spent, yet jubilant pilgrims backdropped by the same spiraling gothic icon.

The outer-city winds me through its veins. My eyes accustom to panning the graceful degrees of beauty I’ve been dipped in, but now they dart and joggle looking for signs of my destination. I long for Burgos, where I was greeted like a one woman parade. Buen Caminos coming from all directions, as if I were a female reincarnation of the saint himself. An old woman, who has difficulty walking, sees me, stands stopped like a pudgy smiling wall. She removes a worn and tattered pilgrim credential, kept inside a plastic bag like my own. It is hers. I look up from the aged document to see the young pilgrim that lives within her. Leaving Burgos, old people made short by age bow, waving me onto the path, like the people of Munchkin Land did to encourage Dorothy to follow her journey down the yellow brick road.

I step out of my fairy tale to consult the guidebook, which tells me I’m less than a half mile from the city center. I search the walls, sidewalks and roads for way markers to confirm I’m still on the Way. Yellow neon signs play with my senses. Then I spot one. The relief gives me a moment to reflect on how the Camino has trained me to look for signs, markers, and symbols to know that I’m going in the right direction. What will I do when my pilgrimage is complete and there are no yellow arrows or scalloped shells to point the way? No answer comes, so like Scarlet, I decide to think about that tomorrow.