THE RAIN poured down on me as I entered the main square of Santiago de Compostela, and to my left I could see the grey cathedral towering above me. My brother followed closely behind, and we exchanged a look of satisfaction as we knew that our journey had come to an end. Just five days before we had set out on a 115km journey, the last leg of the Camino de Santiago, an ancient pilgrimage route across northern Spain that has remained equally beautiful and mysterious for the last several centuries.
Those who believe are told that the remains of St. James are in the cathedral, and with this in mind they undertake an 800km journey in which they meet new people and experience the rich cultural heritage that Spain has to offer.
Although our journey was not of a religious nature, we were in awe as we stood under the rain in front of the cathedral, and we noticed that aside from us and a small group of five pilgrims, the square was empty. Our first thought was to go inside this magnificent building, and although we had been inside at least three other times, this was the first time we entered the cathedral as pilgrims and not tourists. Following a quick prayer before the remains of St James (as is the custom among pilgrims), we headed back into the square, where the rain had slowed down to a slight drizzle and encouraged a few more people to come out from the restaurants and into the square.
We sat down to eat a quick sandwich with my godfather, who had arrived that morning and had been waiting for us for a few hours. Then, from the other side of the square, we spotted the small shape of a man that slowly made its way to the different groups of people scattered around the square, before the shape began to move towards us. Before long we before an elder man carrying a bag, from which a book shyly poked its cover out. My godfather, wary of the many sellers who try and coax tourists to buy their useless wares, got up and walked into the cathedral once again. But I was intrigued by the man and curious to see what the books were about.
He introduced himself to us. He was soft-spoken and had a face with gentle features, the kind of face that can only belong to someone with a kind heart. I flashed a quick smile at him, told him my name and extended my hand to shake his. I then noticed for the first time how they trembled, and he informed me that he suffered from Parkinson’s Disease. I quickly motioned him to sit down between my brother and I, and he told us his story.
A few minutes later, he talked to us as if he were our own grandfather. He spoke of his youth, of his family, of his experiences fighting in the Spanish Civil War, and of the love of his life – a girl named Cecilia, whom he married at the age of 25, and who died after almost 60 years together. Once he said this, he opened one of the books inside his bag. Indeed, in the first page there stood a young, dashing man in a military uniform, smiling as he embraced a beautiful woman who stared at the camera with a piercing gaze.
The drizzle stopped crashing upon the grey pavement of the square, and our conversation became more and more interesting. The man kept speaking to us as if he had known us for a lifetime, and we listened with real interest, trying to envision all he was telling us. He showed us chapters from his book – a collection of poems he’d written throughout his life, ranging from stories about love and life to those of pain and death. It felt strange that we had only known this man for minutes, although at times I would have sworn I had known him for a lifetime.
Finally my godfather emerged from the cathedral, amazed that the man was still talking to us. He joined in the conversation, and soon became as interested as us. after another twenty or so minutes, my godfather decided to buy one of these books. The man was happy to oblige. He took out a beautiful pen to write something on the first page of the book, but his hands were shaking too much for him to write coherently. Visibly frustrated, he looked at me and gestured with the pen, asking me to write for him. I grabbed the pen, probably much older than me, and began writing down as the man dictated his words. Once he was done, I returned the pen to him, and with a titanic effort he signed it. Before we could carry on talking, he picked up his bag, shook our hands for the last time, smiled and thanked us, and continued on his way.
It began to rain again, and the three of us continued to watch his shape as he slowly made his way to other groups of tourists in the square.
Once the rest of the group – my parents, my second brother and some family friends – arrived and stopped at the cathedral, we talked about the old man, who could still be seen slowly walking on the far side of the square. I still could not decide if what had happened was real or not, but one thing I knew for sure: he was one of the most interesting people I have ever met.
Now, not a lot of time has gone by since that conversation took place – a year and a half to be exact-, but every time I think about doing the Camino again, my mind drifts to that rainy April day and the memory of that man, wandering around that square. Maybe as is the case with the eternal beauty of the cathedral, the city of Santiago de Compostela will be graced with the eternal wisdom of the man selling books.
Horizons Squared - Expand Your Horizons 