I'm Here at Santiago

It is five in the morning in Santiago de Compostela and I cannot sleep. Now that I'm here, and having spent a day with my friends, actual pilgrims, I want to change the name of this blog. I have not done the Camino--although I explained earlier that I'm using the word in a figurative sense--and am not deserving.


On the Morning of My Departure
On the morning of my flight, I hosted a book club meeting at my house. These well-read ladies have graciously agreed to read my novel manuscript, "Tales of a Half-Life" and I had told to be candid. Some of the chapters had already been "processed" by a highly critical group of novel writers in a workshop led by a Northwestern University professor, and I felt that I could take whatever they dish out. I'm not as prepared as I thought. I guess it's different with friends, or maybe I was aware of the fact that these are my final readers, people who would pay money to buy a book of their choice. While the comments were generally favorable, a few said they could not sympathize with any of the characters. I must admit that remark was unexpected; I could have understood had they said they did like my writing style, the narrative too dense, the story unbelievable. But over the course of writing it for two years, I had developed an attachment to my characters, not unlike what one would feel about household companions. I thought they were interesting and poignantly sketched. They were flawed and the "growth" they experienced in the end was not dramatic--in fact, the book club thought the ending was depressing--but I thought I'd portray incremental changes because life happens in increments, we change subtly, we often do not have dramatic incidents of life-affirming revelations.
Nevertheless, I felt lucky to have such feedback, and I carefully noted where the novel needed revisions. I put the breakfast brunch I had prepared away--plenty of quiche, almond croissants, olive crackers from Sprain and fruit left--and finished my packing. Then it was off the airport, where my husband was thoughtful enough to request a pass so we could go to the American Airlines lounge together. I spent a nervous half-hour there, trying to eat, and when he looked at me and said, "You know you have to get on that plane," I nodded in resignation. I don't know why I felt so apprehensive then. I was headed to a glorious five days eating and spending time with dear high school friends. Maybe years of mishaps and plans gone awry conspired to plant some doubt in my head. Turns out these little devils in my brain were right.

Chicago to Santiago via Madrid
The seven-hour flight was uneventful enough. I had comfortable back row window seat, close to the lavatories. My seatmate was a woman about my age who spent most the eight-hour flight scribbling geometry problems. I did not feel like striking up a conversation because I wasn't prepared to reveal anything about myself. Plus, I wanted to sleep. The difference in time would render me useless in Spain, and I wasn't about to spoil my time there. At the end of the flight, however, as connecting flights were announced, she asked a flight attendant about going on to Tel Aviv. I suddenly felt the weight of my crucifix pendant heavy on my chest, and I felt relieved I had worn a shirt that did not put my religion on blatant display. In the US, we have become so sensitive to differences in faith that I think we have become less tolerant, more aware of what keeps us apart rather than together. After I asked the attendant about my connection, my seatmate and I strike up a light conversation about Madrid airport. It was enough that we recognized each other as anonymous travellers, experiencing the same roadblocks and twists to separate destinations.

The Agony of Interminable Connections
I had a four hour layover at Madrid airport. Seizing the opportunity to become intimately familiar with my new unlocked GSM phone (whose SIM card for Spain just arrived a few hours earlier) I sat down and fiddled with the buttons, icons. During the entire four hours the only thing I succeeded in doing was to change the language from Spanish to English. I couldn't send texts to anybody and was particularly anxious about Bunny whom I was meeting up with in Santiago. I thought my husband would try sending messages. Frustrated with the phone, I thought I'd cheer myself up by withdrawing euros. That was a dispiriting experience as well.
I kept reminding myself that I should be busy observing people, storing little details in my head for future writing. This group of men, for example, whom I pegged as mechanics (ask my subconscious why) seemed all worked up to go to Santiago, and I wondered why they were traveling. I was aware of a few Americans who looked like pilgrim types, but I discovered they were there for a scientific convention. I imagined the utterances that accompanied gestures (my Spanish is very rusty), the emotions they were feeling. A young woman in high heels and off-the shoulder sweater: "Oh, just off to do my bit of promoting fashion consciousness in a laid back town."
Then it was time to embark, and I felt my anxiety dissipate. Soon I would be with friends.
"Soon" turned out to be relative. For some reason not revealed to the passengers, our plane just sat on the runway for an hour. I drifted in and out of sleep, lulled by the lack of airconditioning. A migraine started to build. When we finally took off, the attendants hurried with the food service. For some inexplicable reason, they missed asking me if I wanted anything, so I had to motion to them when they were four rows behind. My throat was parched, and the two granola bars I had eaten had done nothing to stave off my hunger. Landing with hunger tremors in Santiago would not be good, since I had no idea what time I would eat with Bunny and Annette.
I was fortunate to have trusted my instincts. At the small airport in Santiago, I was one of about five passengers whose luggage were left behind. I thought, "What, 4 hours to move my luggage weren't enough for you?" After filing a claim with Iberia--the employee seemed disturbingly familiar with the situation and I started to worry about how things might be on my return where I would have a much shorter connection time--I went outside. It was a very comfortable day, and I felt relieved that I didn't need my jacket (stored in the outside pocket of my luggage.) It was a silent trip from the airport to my hotel, and I gave the driver a small tip, reasoning that I had no luggage anyway.
Funny how living in a city like Chicago makes you guilty about things like that.

Settled, but not Quite
My room was very nice and comfortable, and lo and behold Bunny started to receive my texts! We planned to meet at the main entrance of the Cathedral, so after eating another Granola bar I set off. My hotel was a five-minute walk to the Cathedral, and although the people looked the same as back home (what did I expect, matadors with capes strolling down the cobblestone paths?) I knew I was not in Chicago anymore. It was vaguely unsettling, being powerless to communicate. I think every writer feels helpless in this situation; we live to convey.
The Cathedral was magnificent, and I had my first sensation of what it takes to be a pilgrim. They looked exhausted and happy, stretching out on the ending point marker, groups of poncho-wearing people laughing in the light rain. "Could have been me," I kept thinking.
When I saw my friends, one of whom I had not seen since high school, I felt ... ordinary. But that only speaks as a testament to friendship: you could be separated by time and space (one lives in the Philippines, the other in Saudi Arabia) and you could just pick up where you left off. As we caught up with each other's lives and ate (wonderful tapas and pinto to accompany it, paella in squid ink) I started to feel happy. Time has been kind to my friends, and here we were, experiencing something new.
Tomorrow my friend Pi from London flies in, another dear friend whom I haven't see in ages. Time rolls on.

Thanks for reading.
Almira