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Santiago de Compostela, Spain

The last day in Santiago, and the start of the long journey home. Tonight I fly from Santiago to Barcelona, tomorrow from there to Istanbul and then Cape Town. I used to love flying – now it seems that as I grow older I dread it more and more. Not because I am scared or anything, I just find it so unbelievably uncomfortable. Regardless of what I try, how I sit, how much I drink or not, I cannot get a comfortable position in which I can sit for longer than ten minutes. I must be a nightmare to sit next to.

My sneakers. I am actually scared of them at this point. Today I thought that I should not go too close to the beautiful silver coffin of St, James – the smell of my shoes might actually wake him from the dead! I tried some essential oil, which I think made it worse. And since it rained the entire day today, non stop, they are now wet again and smelling even worse. (There was a guy in the hostel with me in Oudtshoorn whose shoes could wake the dead. We shared a room. I remember in the midst of summer when the temperature in Oudtshoorn could rise to a magnificent 49 degrees, how the smell of opening his cupboard could launch you out of the room, jet propelled by a higher force over which you had not control. As much as we wanted to just lay on the bed to escape the heat, you would rather scorch to death in the blazing sun than having to be in the room when he opened his cupboard.)

Last night Mauritz, Ina and I went back to the wonderful tapas bar, stuffed our faces, drank a bottle of Cava (and some more) and just enjoyed each others’ company. As I walked to my convent yesterday, it was pouring with rain, the square in front of the Cathedral was completely deserted. One lone Pilgrim arrived. He was so lost, he just stood there in the rain, looking up at the steeple of the Cathedral, leaning on his walking sticks. The next thing, he actually went down on his knees and just started crying. My heart really broke for him. And again appreciated the wonderful company of Mauritz and Ina who have done the Caminho a few times before, so knew what to expect (and what not) and were incredibly kind and gentle to me arriving there for the first time. Mauritz and I share many similar feelings and thoughts around the church.

I think we finished our walk just in time – the weather has turned. All of a sudden the greyness of winter has set in. The buildings seem heavier with the rain soaking into their stone. Water runs down the streets, people dodging umbrellas (I wonder how many eyes are poked out each year by umbrellas) trying to get inside as quickly as possible. Only the smokers linger outside.

My day is spent loitering, again hanging from bar to coffee shop to restaurant. I cannot resist the temptation to go back to our tapas bar – their camembert covered in almond chips, tempura prawns, Russian salad and fish croquettes call me from afar. The place has a fantastic atmosphere, the waiters are so alive and friendly, welcoming everyone like long lost friends when they walk in. The service is exceptional, and it is obvious that Pilgrims have heard about the place. I hang at the bar like an old local, pretending that I do this every day for lunch. (If we had something like this in Cape Town I would be there every day for lunch). All their food is out on display – you choose what you want from the display, depending if it needs warming (or deep frying as my choice) they send it upstairs in a dumb waiter, minutes later it comes back piping hot, garnished deliciousness.

I then head back to Cafe Casino, where we went for our first drinks after being chased out of the Cathedral because of our backpacks. Old world elegance – today Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” welcomes me as I walk in. The hot chocolate is such a soothing, comforting break from the wet day outside. I see Pilgrims come in on wobbly legs, flopping down in the comfortable chairs – half an hour later they cannot get out of the chairs when the muscles have settled into a painful spasm. I see grown men cry when they phone home to tell their partners “I made it”. Youngsters texting wildly trying to share the magic of the moment.

So what is this moment?

Airports – Barcelona and Istanbul

I eventually get to my hotel – which is “near the airport” according to the Internet and yet takes about fifteen minutes by bus. A typical airport hotel – it has about as much ambiance as an hospital emergency waiting room. People come, people go. The room is large but stuffy, and with my compatriot Sketchers, I have to open the windows, which lets in the world of pollution of both stale air and noise. Well, it is that or death by fumigation. I end up locking them in the bathroom, deciding that I will sacrifice comfort and decency and actually fly home wearing my crocks. (Pity there is not a function that one could type a whisper – I would have whispered the word crocks). The breakfast is served with blatant irritation by waiters who look as if they are doing a national service instead of working in a hotel. When I ask one for a spoon to eat my yogurt, I am told ” it is there on the buffet” with a totally unimpressed nudge of her head in the direction of the buffet. The test to see if anything about the Caminho has infiltrated my personality is right here – I am tempted to slap her against the head. Instead I get up, take a deep breath and fetch the spoon, thinking of the Dalai Lama.

Barcelona airport. Madness, total, utter madness. People running to catch planes, frenetically shopping for those gifts they forgot to buy Granny and the neighbour who looked after the cat, fights after long holidays that wrecked the nerves of couples who never spend this much time together, cool people looking as if they stepped out of a Vogue fashion shoot. And then there is the rest of us. I close my eyes and think of the “Variante Espiritual”. How did I end up here?

Thanks to a good seat on the flight, I can stretch my (very weary) legs. I think my legs actually missed the walking, so I was super aware of how stiff they were. Somehow the service on the Turkish Airlines flight is chaotic – or is it just my imagination after being alone, quiet and peaceful for so long? I decided to do the ultimate escapist thing, and bought the Dragon Tattoo follow up, I don’t care if it is good or not, I just need a thick book to escape with for the next twenty four hours. It works – I immediately fall into the intrigue of Blomkvist and Salander, lapping up every word. (And noticing how many spelling mistakes there are in the book!).

The airport in Istanbul is even more of a shock to my system – I did not notice the last time I was there that it was so big, maybe because we did not have to spend 8 hours there, I have a coffee, a beer, and then suddenly thought if I don’t get out of this building, I will go mad. I decide to actually take the risk to go into Istanbul by Metro. I quickly do the self-service visa, free of charge from a vending machine (now I ask you…), hop on the Metro and off again in Taksim Square. By now it is 20h00, and I have to back at the airport at 00h00. Well, talk about heaving masses – Taksim Square is like an ant’s nest. There is a wave of people going up and down the road from Taksim that you cannot believe. What a time warp – from Santiago to Istanbul. The difference, the feeling of being on another planet, being confronted by the super friendly Turks, tourists, vendors, and people trying to sell just about anything short of their mother-in-law to you. (I am sure you can buy a pf few those too..) The Turkish delight shops, chestnuts being roasted, Turkish tea served at tiny little doll’s house tables on the side walks, Turkish men looking everyone up and down. And more people and shops and cats – I love the way the cats are part of the heaving masses. Big, fat, healthy looking cats that swirl their way through human legs like masterful swirling dervishes.

I go into one of the side streets to escape the masses, and sit down for a beer. Efes – which is actually a very nice beer! ABBA is blaring Mama Mia, follo
wed by Boy George. A touch of madness, that is what I think Istanbul represents for me. The madness of two countries in one city, the contrasts, the beautiful Bosphorus. Again, a city with a river for a heart, pumping life blood deep into the heart of East and West.

The journey back to reality is long and uncomfortable. Nothing more, nothing less.

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