“That Is A Very Good Answer”
I arrived in Santiago de Compostela after 32 days of walking with a to-do list. Get Compostela from Pilgrim’s Office was one of the key items on my list, and the day after reaching Santiago, I entered “Rúa das Carretas, 33” into my GPS with the aim of doing just that.
Although I showed up at the Pilgrim’s Reception Office minutes after it opened for the day, there was already a line out the door. Eager pilgrims from all walks of life surrounded me. I clocked some with their backpacks, who must have just arrived in Santiago that morning. I noted, with more than a little nostalgia, others who looked more fresh and coiffed than they had in a month. They had clearly utilized their urban accommodations’ facilities to get back to more polished versions of themselves — versions that seemed, with every moment, to get farther away from the Camino.
To me, obtaining the certificate of completion was just a formality. I had had the best month of my life on the Camino, and that was what counted. In my eyes, the journey itself was paramount, and the compostela was merely a symbol of that journey. So when my number was called and I found myself at the counter, conversing with one of the volunteers, I admit that I approached the interaction with the intention of getting through it as quickly as possible.
In this, I was thwarted, however, because the volunteer was in absolutely no rush. This he made clear by the sheer amount of questions he asked, and the prolonged pauses and commentaries that followed.
“Why did you choose the Camino?” he asked me.
“I, um…” I began. I realized I wasn’t sure.
“Well, I…” I started again, hoping inspiration would hit and I could say something poignant and beautiful. It did not; I could not. So I opted for the next best thing: the truth.
“I don’t know,” I said simply and honestly, shrugging my shoulders. This frank answer made the volunteer laugh, which made me laugh.
Then I continued, “I think it was more like the Camino chose me.”
He abruptly stopped laughing and nodded. “I like that,” he said. “That is a good answer. That is a very good answer.”
“Where are you from?” he then asked.
“I’m from the USA,” I said.
“Wow. You came from so far away.” He said it with so much gravity, as if my coming from the United States meant something profound. It hadn’t seemed incredibly significant to me before.
“Yes, I supposed I did,” I said.
“And where did you start your Camino from?” he asked.
“I started from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port,” I replied. He must have already known the answer; he was holding my pilgrim’s passport in his hands. Yet still, when I replied, he appeared surprised.
“All the way from Saint-Jean?” He asked, incredulous. “You walked so far!”
Indeed, it was the farthest I had ever walked. But until that moment, it didn’t seem very shocking. After all, I had walked the way that millions of pilgrims before me had walked, and I had done so with a cohort of many others.
“Yes, I… I suppose I did walk very far.” I said.
“And did you come alone or with friends?” he asked. At this point, I started to get emotional, thinking of all the wonderful pilgrims I had met in my month of walking.
“Well, I came alone, but I made friends along the way.”
“Wow…” he said again. “So you came alone, all the way from the United States, and walked 780 kilometers?”
He paused, and something shifted in me. I was no longer in a rush to get my compostela. I felt the importance of the moment.
“You are so brave,” the volunteer said, and I promptly burst into tears.
The man nodded, as if this was what he had been working towards. Perhaps he saw me — all rushed and about to let a beautiful moment go to waste — and intentionally slowed me down. Perhaps his questions were targeted. Perhaps his goal was to crack the hard shell of my heart.
“Well done,” he said as I cried. I didn’t know if he was praising my Camino or my moment of recognition and vulnerability. “Very, very well done.”
