Winding Paths of Life
– The Stories of Pilgrims and God Seekers –
FRICK VERLAG GmbH - Postfach 447
D-75104 PFORZHEIM
To my mother,
who never stopped praying for me.
Travel is one thing, a pilgrimage is another. Although each involves moving from place to place, a pilgrimage is a journey of faith. Pilgrims in Europe recognize this essential distinction. It helps the pilgrim-traveller to set his/her sights on great persons, places and events of faith and to seek to assimilate more deeply the mysteries and the acts of God that have helped to produce the great culture which we have inherited. I am happy to recommend this book to all who are undertaking such an exciting adventure.
PAX,
Most Reverend John J. Myers
Archbishop of Newark
How do you “do” life? Do you just go about it with no particular plan? Or do you do something meaningful? Do you just “check off” your childhood, school, job, family--all the usual stuff? Is your life a success story--or a failure? Are you kidding yourself about your own life, living an illusion, or making up stories, which over time morph into their own reality?
Didn’t we all once have a dream, a vision…wishes and hopes that we would one day lead a better life and even make this world a more humane place? Weren’t we all once really curious about life, eager to try 1,001 new things? Didn’t we all hope to meet interesting people and see far-away places, to meet that one-in-a-million and once-in-a-lifetime soul mate? Didn’t we want to show the world what we’d got… fall in love, have kids, find success and happiness? Well, of course we did… At the same time, we know that life is not a quiet and gentle river. Rather, life is one big adventure, up one day, down the next, weaving back and forth. Life is a daring feat, like canoeing down Niagara Falls. And finally--if all goes well--while you might not win, hopefully you can at least quietly moor in a safe harbor when you get old… even with bumps and cuts and bruises all over. No one escapes unscathed. Life is unpredictable, and very few people are able to do something useful in the few short years they are given on this earth. A lot of things depend on coincidences--directed by God--some happy, some not so pleasant… We bump into people, we are attracted to ideas, to the love of money, to the power of grand feelings. Sadly, we are also marked by the foolish things we do.
When I was young, how often did I hear the old folks say, “I just wish I were young again!” Only when we have safely reached the harbor of old age do we have an inkling of the gist of it all: When things work out halfway well, life comes full circle. But yet, we still ask ourselves, “Was that all? Really? Was it worth it? Will any part of me remain? How will the people in my life remember me? Did the good things I did in my life outweigh my thousands of weaknesses, vanities, and missed opportunities? Until not too long ago, thoughts like these swirled around in my mind.
Sixty years of my life left their mark on me. I met thousands of people, came to know countless ideas, feelings, and points of view. I suffered much. And while there were also many moments of happiness, somehow the “hub” was still missing. But finally, I found that “hub.” It is love--the master key of my life, the blueprint of happiness. Eros (sensual passion), philos (friendship with people), and stoika (attraction to material things) are the three worldly forms of love that all of us are more or less familiar with. And I had come to know all of them. They are marvelous and you can’t do without them. Still, they are not sufficient. Only when I discovered Christian agape love, did I finally cross the finish line. Agape love is a metaphysical and spiritual form of sacrificial love. No one could describe it better than St. Paul does in his first Epistle to the Corinthians, chapter thirteen:
“If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give away all I have, and if I deliver up my body to be burned, but have not love, I gain nothing. Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.” (1 Cor 13:1-8, ESV)
Had I not experienced this agape love, I would never have dared or been able to write a book. Only the assurance of being safe in the love of God gave me the power and ability to put my experiences on paper.
***
In my folks’ home in Würzburg, Germany, we most certainly didn’t have any paintings by Picasso or any valuable encyclopedias. My parents, my brother, and I lived in a modest apartment in Würzburg’s Old Town. Hard work, duty, austerity, and obedience--those were the virtues I was taught. My father was a skilled craftsman--a machinist, whose skills my brother seemed to have inherited entirely because I have none of these gifts. But the parent who influenced me most was my strong-willed and very devout mother, who always believed in me--all those years.
When it was time to choose a profession, I selected the hotel business. After my apprenticeship as a waiter in a Würzburg hotel, I struck out on my own and moved to Switzerland, where I learned the refined art of the Swiss restaurant business. I was trained as a hotel management assistant in institutions such as the world-famous Baur au Lac Hotel. However, after a while, Germany and Switzerland seemed too small and provincial. I needed to branch out into the big, wide world. So I jumped at the first opportunity that presented itself and signed on as a steward on ocean liners, serving on such famous vessels as MS “Bremen” and MS “Europa.” We plied the North Atlantic route and so I regularly visited New York, a city that fascinated me. Sadly, it was also on those visits that I yielded to the Big Apple’s seductive lure and its many temptations.
One day, as we were berthed in New York, I left my ship and never looked back, preferring to live in that great city for several years. I found work as a dish washer, waiter, taxi driver, shoe maker, tombstone salesman, and took many other odd jobs. At last I met a young Columbian woman who had worked in New York for a while and who wanted to return to her home country. We fell in love, got married, and--without giving it a second thought--we moved to Bogotá. That was a beautiful time in my life. We were blessed with two daughters. I was hired as the director of gastronomy at a well-known country club and had the opportunity to learn the languages of South America--Spanish and Portuguese.
Years later I returned to the U.S., working as sales manager for a Columbian firm. I separated from my family and lived all over North America until 1991--from Miami to L.A., from Chicago to Vancouver--working as a gemmologist and even as a stock broker.
I remember well--back in the ‘60s, on the streets of Lower Eastside --when I met Indian guru Srila Prabhupada, a walking legend. You could often run into him--wearing his orange-colored silk robes and being trailed by his disciples--introducing the Hare Krishna Movement to the West. This man triggered a yearning for something spiritual deep inside of me. I became a “seeker”--looking for the meaning to life and even dabbling in Buddhism and Hinduism for a while. Gurus such as Baghavan Raijneesh and Maharishi Mahesh Yogi were important role models during that period.
I finally returned to Germany, disappointed and frustrated. I was forty-five years old and had seen and experienced so many things. But I felt tired and empty, staring into a void. Everything I had ever started seemed to be a failure. What to build on? What to believe in? I had tried a number of things, but couldn’t connect to my earlier life. Within a short period of time I tumbled into a deep spiritual crisis. I began to doubt everything, especially myself. I needed time to think about my life and overcome my depression.
Then an astounding opportunity presented itself-- I had a shot at living in a sparse log cabin in Canada for a whole year. Nowadays they call these times of reprieve “sabbaticals” or “Sabbath years.” Reduced to the bare minimum, I lived off the land. Once again, I came to learn what really counts in life: dependability, a sip of water, a piece of bread, and the hope that you’ll make it the next day. That year changed my life from the ground up. I found my way back to the important things in life and renounced everything flashy, deceitful, crazy, and lustful. Up there in Canada’s deep winter solitude I led an ascetic and Spartan life. And I found my way back to God--or rather, I quit rejecting His attempts to reach me. The old Bible I found in the cabin helped me on my way back. I swore that I would start a new life, and so I returned to Germany.
I stayed with my mother for a few weeks--my father had already passed away by that time--and we discussed what I could do with my life. I reflected on my skill set: I was fluent in four languages, was a “people person,” and most certainly knew my way around in the hotel and restaurant business. Perhaps most importantly, I was trying to get back to Christianity.
Then one day, an old friend in the U.S. called me up and told me about pilgrimage tours mainly throughout Europe that he was organizing for American tourists. He was looking for a tour guide and offered me the job. We would test the waters with a trial trip. That was back in 1992. Since then, that one trip has led to several hundred other journeys--small ones, big ones, some of them wonderful, some of them less so--but many of them unforgettable. Famous Brazilian author Paulo Coelho writes in one of his books: “Pilgrimages have always been one of the most objective ways to attain enlightenment. To purge your sins, you keep on walking, keep on meeting new challenges. You are rewarded with thousands of blessings, which life generously grants the one who asks for them.”
As a tour guide in Assisi, Lourdes, Fatima, and Avila, I can affirm that this statement is true. Every trip changed me a little bit more. On the one hand, I was just a “regular” tour guide, responsible for everything and anything: get two Aspirins here, take someone to the hospital there… and all the while feeling just as responsible for finding the teddy bear of a fifteen-year old girl as helping a priest locate his lost cassock. Yet, on the other hand, I was also one of the pilgrims. I prayed with them, I accompanied them on every procession, and participated in every Mass. I headed up many discussions, talked about the Holy Father, connected believers with the Church--all the while being drawn ever closer to Holy Roman Catholicism. A sense of inner peace started to grow in me and I soon began to radiate it. The people whom I accompanied felt my peace and sincerity and often confided in me. I have no clue how many life stories they shared with me on my many trips. Some of the stories they told me are in this book. And they happened exactly the way I wrote them down.
Years ago I started sharing some of these stories with the people on my tours--sometimes after dinner, or on long bus rides. I was amazed how much the people loved these stories. As soon as I finished one story, they would beg me to tell another. This went on for several years.
And then there was that long trip with Dennis Yosick, an elderly American gentleman dying of cancer. He had traveled to Europe, planning to depart from this life at the holy sites. When I saw how this poor soul entrusted himself to God and to Our Dear Lady--even while suffering extreme pain--something inside of me went “click.” I was suddenly standing at a threshold. Behind me I saw my old life. But ahead of me I saw a blooming landscape, which attracted me like magic. Intensive reading, prayers, retreats, and many conversations later, “paradise” finally opened up for me. I had found agape love--the humble, dedicated love for God. Or rather, it had found me… I wanted to devote the rest of my life to this love. Over and over, I recalled the life motto of Pope John Paul II and Brother Roger, those two great theologians united in ecumenism: “Love, and express that with your life.”
And so, in only one year, I was able to recall and put down on paper many of these stories. They are about individuals who made testimonies on a different kind of life--brimming with decency, responsibility, courtesy, goodness, and love for your neighbor. These are the stories of people who communicate that living a life for God is not a thing unto itself, but rather a way of making our world more humane.
***
Of course, no one can write a book like this alone. So many people have helped me with this project. Unfortunately, I only have enough space to thank a few of them. I would like to mention Father Grigus, whom I met many years ago on a pilgrimage and who appears in several of these stories as a protagonist. I am especially thankful for his friendship and constant support--especially in spiritual matters.
From the very start, his Excellency the Archbishop of Newark, New Jersey, John Meyers, amazed me with his trust and generous support. I wish to thank this shepherd of the Roman Catholic Church in North America. American author Laurie Manhardt; my American friend, Dennis Gaetan; and my translator, Christian Tiews, from St. Louis, Missouri: all of them continually inspired me to keep on pushing myself. Also, Jim Melornick, professor of literature at the University of Minnesota, Rochester, provided me with useful tips. Most of all I would like to thank Mr. Rainer Gerlach, a specialist in German studies, without whom I wouldn’t have been able to write this book. I will never forget his encouraging words, “Write, write, write!”
Frankfurt am Main, Germany, August 2008
Only human beings are capable of receiving the gift of faith. Only humans can believe in the existence of God, the innocent expression in the eyes of a new-born, or in the fact that humans can do good deeds.
But, sadly, this capability to believe, embedded in us from conception, can be crushed, wither, and die under certain circumstances, for instance when people have the misfortune to live under totalitarian governments prohibiting any kind of religious instruction.
Some scientists and intellectuals have great difficulty believing in immaterial things—things that can neither be touched, heard, nor smelled. This tendency is like a steep, icy slope propelling them into the abyss of unbelief.
Sadly, such people lead their lives more or less completely rationally, beholden to a materialistic worldview. As such, they are usually governed by mistrust, skepticism or doubt—not by faith, hope, and love. And, tragically, such people usually wind up emotional paupers.
But that yearning for faith, hope, and love - while often suppressed by the outside world—will at some point in their lifetime attempt to work its way back into their lives, knocking on the door of their impoverished hearts. Tragically, many of them will reject this gift of belief, while others will receive it.
***
One winter’s day in Frankfurt I met one of these seekers in a most unlikely place—the fitness center right around the corner from my apartment.
The winter months are a very peculiar time for us tour guides. We finally have time to recuperate from the stressful travels of the previous summer. But the flip side is that we don’t make any money during those bleak months between November and February. So during this off time I usually just kick back, sleep, take long walks, and read…Not unlike a bear hibernating—except for the walking and reading, of course. Sometimes I work out and try to shed some of the pounds I had gained the previous summer, when I ate in all those fancy restaurants on pilgrimages.
This story begins in December 2005—a winter’s break during which I had decided not to take a ski vacation, but chose to stay home instead.
One Friday afternoon I thought I would go to the fitness center right around the corner from my apartment. I had been a regular there for some time. That particular day, it wasn’t good ol’ Monika sitting at the reception desk, but a young woman I had never seen before, who greeted me in a very friendly way in an accent I pegged as being Eastern European. Her name was Anastasia, as I later found out. She was probably twenty-one or twenty-two, slim and of medium height, and a brunette. With that deep timbre that sometimes characterizes Eastern European women, she was reviewing with me how to do the new Nautilus exercises the staff had worked out for me on my previous visit. As I was acquainting myself with the new work-out equipment, I occasionally glanced over to Anastasia sitting at the reception desk. Whenever she had nothing to do, she read a paperback.
A few days later I was back and noticed her again. Taking a break from my Nautilus, I sat down at the bar and ordered a power drink. We struck up a conversation and I noticed that she was still reading the same book. I glanced at the title and was surprised. It was Paulo Coelho’s famous diary, The Pilgrimage: A Contemporary Quest for Ancient Wisdom, one of my favorites. Published in 1987, this book has triggered a plethora of pilgrimages to Santiago de Compostela, Spain, and spawned a wealth of other books on that topic.
In between sips of pineapple juice, we talked about her book. Anastasia was exuberant about it, as young people excited about something are often apt to be. What apparently intrigued her was not necessarily the Camino de Santiago (also known as the Way of St. James) itself or even that gorgeous part of Spain, but rather the mystical experience many pilgrims encounter on that pilgrimage, which Coelho describes in great detail. It seemed very clear that was the kind of experience this young woman was looking for, too.
Over the next few weeks, I worked out at the fitness center more often than I had ever done up to that point. Pumping iron and using all that equipment did work some small wonders on my excess pounds. But, much more importantly, my frequent visits blessed me with a paternal relationship with a young woman whose openness and seeking intrigued me. A few weeks later we were already on a first-name basis (something very special and relatively rare in Germany between people of different generations). I invited her for a cup of coffee at a popular café in our part of town, because I had guessed that Anastasia was searching for a heart-to-heart conversation.
It didn’t take us long to get back to our special topic, the Camino de Santiago. I told her about my experiences on the Camino, how often I had been there with my pilgrims and so on.
“Somehow there’s something so mysterious and fascinating about the landscape of northwestern Spain,” I told her, already lost in thought as I contemplated the region of Galicia in particular.
“I’ve been thinking about doing the Camino for a long time now,” she explained in her distinctly Slavic accent. “But I never figured out how to go about it. Could you help me find the way?”
“Of course I can—and I will. But do you realize what this walk means? Are you sure you want to walk hundreds of kilometers? And besides, for what?”
“I can’t really explain it. There’s something magical, something mysterious about the Camino. I can feel it drawing me. It’s like I’m being sucked into something from which I just can’t wriggle free. I can’t get it out of my head. I’ve got to experience this Camino. That’s the only way I can kick this obsession.”
“Are you a believer?”
“Hardly. Actually I’m an atheist. My family members are atheists, too. We’re originally from Kiev in the Ukraine. When I was a child, my mother and I moved to Germany. Back in the Ukraine, religion was suppressed. Besides, everyone in my family is an academic or an intellectual, and you can’t be an intellectual and a believer at the same time. It’s like oil and water. They don’t mix. Practically everyone in my family was a successful academic in the former Soviet Union. I can’t remember ever reading the Bible or praying.”
The first of those three gifts of the Spirit—faith, hope, and love—came to my mind. “Faith is absolutely lacking in this young woman,” I thought.
She told me about her mother, now a teacher of Slavic languages in Frankfurt. Her father had moved back to Kiev, she said. She told me about her grandparents who were chemists and physicists. Anastasia was an architecture major at the Technische Universität Darmstadt.
As we were talking, I discretely observed her and noticed she was having a difficult time keeping still. She kept on fidgeting and bouncing from one topic to another, too. Somehow she seemed driven by something—distracted and lacking inner peace. As she described her day-to-day life, I realized what her problem was.
In order to pay the rent while going to college, Anastasia worked as a waitress in a Russian nightclub by night and occasionally at the fitness center by day. I wondered when and how she ever had time for her studies. What’s more, her nightclub employer had been withholding her pay for months and she was living solely on tips—which are not 15% of the bill as in the U.S., but on average only about $1.00 to $2.00 per order. Her relationship with her boyfriend was in a rut as well.
“Achim and I live in two totally different worlds,” she described their relationship. “And I no longer have the energy to keep fighting for our relationship. Everything seems so futile. So do these part-time jobs. And even if I ever do graduate, I’ll probably never get a job as an architect anyway.”
This young woman was sending out conflicting messages. On the one hand, she was high-spirited and joyful about life. On the other hand, she seemed to be looking for something deeper in life—something to hold on to, something with meaning.
I tried to distract her and ordered another piece of cake for each of us. We ate silently, lost in thought. But my attempt at distracting her didn’t last long: just a few minutes later we got back onto the Camino topic again.
Anastasia was absolutely convinced that her life would change and that she would find the kind of mystical experience she was searching for, if only she were able to go on that oldest pilgrimage in Europe. I was skeptical about the whole idea and subtly pointed out that I had reservations about her wanting to put all her eggs in the “Camino basket,” so to speak, which would just disappoint her if it didn’t work out.
But I couldn’t convince her. On the contrary, when we were about to leave, she asked me quite bluntly, but with a gleam in her eye:
“Arthur, please walk the Camino with me. You’re an experienced tour guide. You can show me all the special things and can explain this myth to me that so many pilgrims are fascinated about.”
This caught me off guard. Should I let her drag me into this whole thing? On the other hand, how could I flatly turn down such a charming request? I just didn’t have the heart to say “No” and felt somewhat pressured. So I sort of nodded my agreement.
Anastasia beamed. She had gotten what she wanted.
But before she could make this project even more complicated, I quickly added, “OK, we could do this next August… I’ll come along, but I’ve only got two weeks to spare. We’ll only be able to walk a few hundred miles (200-300 km)—tops. I don’t have time to do more.”
When we left the café and said good-bye on the street, she gave me a hug and then vigorously pumped both of my hands. Then we parted ways, both of us absorbed with the Camino.
Over the next few months we saw each other regularly and talked on the phone a lot, coordinating all the gear we had to purchase: clothing, comfortable shoes, light knapsacks, warm sleeping bags, etc. We also stocked up on all the necessary lotions, salves, and pills we would be needing.
I purchased a “Camino Pilgrim Passport” for each of us on the Internet. This is a little booklet for collecting stamps from the various hostels and specially designated locations along the way. It also entitles you to spend the night for free at the various refugios. We would have to present this booklet at the Pilgrim Office at the end of the pilgrimage in Santiago de Compostela, if we wanted to receive the compostela, the prized pilgrimage certificate.
By late August, Anastasia and I were equipped and mentally prepared for our long hike. We flew from Frankfurt to the Spanish coastal city of Santander, where we boarded an overland bus to Leon.
We spent the night at a simple hotel and, the next morning, took another bus to Ponferrada, a town close to the border of Galicia, an autonomous region in northwestern Spain. The first night on our pilgrimage we spent with several hundred men and women in the dormitory of a large hostel. We both slept uneasily that first night, because we were eager to begin the first leg of our trek—from Ponferrada to Villafranca del Bierzo—by 5:00 the next morning.
In the early light of dawn we marveled at the green vineyards, interspersed with elephant-back hills overgrown with strange scrubby bushes. A light summer rain accompanied us on our first twenty miles (30 km). By late afternoon we had almost reached Jato’s hostel, situated on a steep mountain. We reached it a short time later—gasping for breath.
Most every Camino pilgrim knows Jato’s hostel—a plain but romantic place. Pilgrims spend the night more or less outdoors there, enshrouded in much the same atmosphere pilgrims have been experiencing for centuries. Jato’s food is simple, but tasty and plentiful. We sat at long tables with dozens of other pilgrims and enjoyed the engaging conversations with pilgrims and “mystery seekers” from around the world.
Jato, the owner, attended to every single pilgrim personally, making them feel very special. Anastasia and I discussed the next leg of our journey, up to the mountain village of O’ Cebreiro, the highest elevation of our hike, 1300 meters above sea level. (About 4300 ft)
Somewhat embarrassingly, the next morning already found me complaining about sore muscles and blisters on my feet, whereas Anastasia had no problems. In contrast to me, she was well rested and full of energy.
The hike from Ponferrada to O’ Cebreiro was not very long, but unusually arduous. The route goes up and down, up and down, up and down—and then at the very end of the day—practically straight up. As you hike, the hostel of O’ Cebreiro is always in your line of sight—like a mirage that never seems to be getting any closer. Pilgrims really have to dig in their heels to make it up the steep mountain at the very end of the day’s trek.
Since the 9th century, the East Galician pilgrimage village of O’ Cebreiro—the Gateway to Galicia—has been a famous stopover for pilgrims. Due to the precipitous incline at the very end of this leg, it took us a full four hours to conquer the last three miles (5 km). I’m sure Anastasia would have made it up a lot quicker if she hadn’t been burdened with me.
Unfortunately, the higher we climbed, the more the green pastures and gray rock around us disappeared in the cloudy mist. At one particular point we penetrated the cloud line, after which it drizzled non-stop and visibility dropped to maybe fifty feet (15 m). We finally reached our goal of the day soaking wet and bushed, only to find that we still had to line up behind hundreds of pilgrims, all of whom were hoping to find a place to spend the night. But eventually we did find a place to stay.
Exhausted, we dumped our rucksacks and rested a while, looking forward to exploring the ancient Celtiberian village, which has been able to retain much of its timeless charm. The little thatchroofed houses are made of sandstone and all nestled up to one another, radiating a feeling of peace and safety. We couldn’t spot a single villager and presumed they might all be in the local church, the Santa Maria, which we soon located. In the 12th century at this very spot a Eucharistic miracle occurred, which has since been recognized by the Vatican.
Sure enough, most of the villagers were in church.
It took a little bit of persuasion on my part, but Anastasia eventually agreed to step inside the sanctuary with me. We entered just as the priest was preparing the Eucharistic Mass and decided to stay a while. The young priest had provided translations of passages from the Pilgrimage Book in twenty different languages and invited congregants from the various nations present to step up to the chancel and read a passage in his or her native language. I stepped in front of the congregation and read a verse in German. I was pleased when Anastasia decided to do the same, but unfortunately they didn’t have a verse in Russian.
By the time we left the church and stepped outside, it had stopped raining and the sky had cleared. Then all of a sudden the evening sun painted the landscape golden, dipping everything in a deep red, which got darker with every passing minute. We both marveled at the breath-taking view and the beautiful colors spread across the sky, highlighted here and there by a few stray clouds.
Anastasia sat next to me. Both of us were enveloped in silence. She had pulled her knees under her chin and her arms were wrapped around her shins. Apparently the combination of the hike, the Eucharistic Mass, and now this beautiful gift from nature had triggered something deep down inside of her. I could tell something was going on by the look in her eyes.
I tried to imagine the Holy Spirit knocking on the door of her heart and envisioned the thoughts, that might be tumbling through her mind. I didn’t dare interrupt her reflective mood and the working of the Spirit. So I silently said a prayer and waited for her to speak up.
“How do you think my life will turn out, Arthur? I wish I knew the future. I have so many wishes and hopes for my life, but I’m also scared and have doubts about the future.”
I waited a few moments, before answering.
“Well, Anastasia, you need to push all those negative thoughts from your mind and just concentrate on what is beautiful.” The second of those three gifts of the Spirit—faith, hope, and love—came to mind, so I replied, “You still have your whole life ahead of you. Fill your heart with hope!”
“I wish it were that easy.”
“At your age, hope should be really easy.”
We were silent for a long while, intently focusing on the stillness. When the first breath of evening started blowing across the meadows, we finally got up.
The night was pleasant and we slept soundly and deeply. The next morning we were awakened by the first rays of the sun. As it turned out, the weather was sunny and clear from then on out—all the way until we reached Santiago de Compostela several days later.
Over the next few days, Anastasia and I got into a steady rhythm of hiking, eating, sleeping, and contemplating. Our route was at times formidable and we both had to learn that living in close proximity with others requires a lot of patience.
For example, a few times I was careless and forgot some things at the hostel where we had spent the previous night, so I had to trek back to retrieve my belongings. I could tell that backtracking with me without uttering a single complaint was a struggle for my Ukrainian friend.
In moments like these she was upset with me and I could literally feel the atmosphere thicken like the approaching clouds of an afternoon storm in the mountains of Galicia, but not once did she comment on my goofs. She accepted them all with a generous measure of grace.
Mornings were especially tough for Anastasia and me. While I have for years grown accustomed to getting through the first hours of the day without eating or drinking, Anastasia couldn’t walk a single step without having a bite to eat. If she didn’t have at least a croissant and a cup of coffee, there was simply no communicating with her—something that was hard for me to accept.
On the other hand, when I wanted to stop somewhere and have breakfast, she was so full of vim and vigor that I could hardly contain her. But we pretty much managed to control our tempers about the things that irked, irritated or even drove us insane about the other person.
After about ten days we had almost made it. We now only had one day left on our pilgrimage and woke up that day to a beautiful late summer’s morning. We took our time getting ready for the last few miles to Santiago de Compostela. Descending from Monte de Gozo (Mountain of Joy) around noon, with our pilgrimage walking sticks in hand and our traditional scallop shells dangling around our necks, we climbed the last hill, behind which lay Santiago.
Over the centuries, this village has become world-famous—thanks to the millions of pilgrims who have concluded their pilgrimage at this place. Tradition has it that one of the twelve disciples, James the Elder, came to this area very soon after Pentecost to spread the Gospel. Supposedly his missionary work was not successful and so he soon returned to Palestine, only to meet a martyrer’s death.
But legend also has it that St. James’ disciples Atamasius and Theodorus brought their master’s body back to the coast of Spain by boat and buried him at this very place.
Early in the ninth century a hermit named Pelayo is said to have rediscovered the spot where James’ body was buried. Christians quickly spread this news and pilgrimages to Santiago began soon afterward. For several centuries, his remains were hidden by monks during the period of Muslim occupation. The gorgeous Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela we know today, was built at that site after the Moors had been driven out and James’ body had been returned, now entombed in the sanctuary. In recent centuries, the modern city of Santiago has grown up around the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, the town’s most famous landmark.
Relieved and somehow also deeply moved, we finally reached our goal and reverently passed through the narrow medieval city gate, which marked our official entry in Santiago de Compostela. From there we headed to a cobblestone square in the Old Town.
We stood around awhile, reflecting on the purpose of our journey, after which I said a silent prayer and crossed myself. I waved to a pilgrim walking by, handed him my digital camera, and asked him to please capture this special moment for us.
Only then did Anastasia and I dive into the crowd of thousands of pilgrims milling about the narrow alleys and squares of Santiago. We drifted along in the throngs of people, listening and looking, taking in the sights and sounds.
After we had come to our senses somewhat, we noticed that we were at the Plaza de Obradoiro—probably the most important square in Galicia, over which soar the moss-covered spires of one of the most beautiful cathedrals in all of Christendom.
Anastasia and I were happy--each of us in our own way. We had come to the end of the road--literally. At least that was what Anastasia thought…
“Somehow I pictured Santiago differently, but I can’t believe how exciting it is to be here,” exclaimed Anastasia with a laugh. For me too, this was an incredible experience--even though I had already been there so often with my various pilgrimage groups.
Only now that I had actually walked to this town, could I consider myself a real Camino pilgrim. Our next stop was the Pilgrim Office located right next to the cathedral. We got in line behind what must have been hundreds of people, all waiting to receive their compostela. Only people who can actually prove that they have walked at least the last one hundred kilometers are authorized to receive this prized document. It took more than an hour until we were proudly holding our compostelas, written in Latin and probably looking much the same as they would have in the Middle Ages. Anastasia was beaming with joy and waving her certificate through the air. “Guckt mal, ich hab’ sie!” [“Look, I got it!”] she shouted in German to the people still standing in line.
Only now did we visit the cathedral. But rather than walk through any of the several main portals, we chose to enter through the famous Portal de Gloria (Glory Door), a masterpiece of Romanesque architecture built in the eleventh century and named for the gloria--glory and honor--that all believers who walk through it are said to receive.
Walking through this portal symbolizes that the pilgrims who have come this far have left their old lives behind them and are now beginning a new life. Like pilgrims for over a thousand years, we too wanted to thank St. James for the Camino, so we got in line to embrace and kiss the bust of the disciple. It took more than an hour until we had reached the saint’s tomb, which is located directly behind the high altar. As we were about to leave, the cathedral was being prepared for the Eucharistic mass, so, once again, we decided to stay for Holy Communion. Anastasia, I noted with interest, wanted to see a pilgrims’ mass.
During the very ceremonial High Mass, a murmur went through the crowd as several monks started setting the famous Botafumeiro—one of the largest censors in the world—in motion over the throngs of people. Over five feet (1.6 m) tall and hanging from a ninety foot (27 m) rope attached to the ceiling of the cathedral, the huge silver-colored censor swung back and forth majestically over the heads of the congregants, dispensing incense.
When we were finally back on the crowded streets of the Old Town more than two hours later, we noticed how tired we were. So we sat down at the first café we could find, relaxed, and enjoyed a large cappuccino, observing the throng of pilgrims and letting their voices and cries in dozens of languages wash over us. Anastasia and I we sat there for awhile, just chatting, contemplating, and processing all we had seen and experienced the past ten days.
“Anastasia, say, did you know that the Camino does not really end in Santiago?”
“You’re kidding… I thought we had reached the end of it.”
“Actually, we haven’t. The Camino really ends in Cape Finisterre, a French word that means ‘edge of the world.’ From here in Santiago the pilgrims used to walk an additional fifty-five miles (90 km) to the Cape. That is truly the end of the road—a little fishing village at the edge of the Spanish mainland, situated on a peninsula of granite. In days gone by, pilgrims used to publicly burn their tarnished and tattered pilgrimage robes at that spot—as a sign of a new beginning.”
“Hmm,” she replied. “You leave your old life behind you and begin a new life.”
“Exactly.”
I could tell that she was intrigued by this concept. In fact, it even seemed to electrify her. After a few moments of silence she burst out, “So why don’t we push on to Cape Finisterre?”
“I would love to complete the pilgrimage with you,” I replied, “but my time is up. I’ve got to be back in Germany in two days and, besides, my legs hurt. I can’t go on. Oh well, I’ve been there so many times anyway. I know what it looks like, but for you it would be a wonderful experience that would really be worth your while.”
“You want me to walk there all by myself?”
“Anastasia, you don’t really think I’d suggest something like this without already having a solution at hand, do you?” I asked her with a wink. “You know, earlier when we were in the cathedral, I happened to be standing next to a German couple who couldn’t find a vacant seat. You were already sitting up front. They said they’d be driving to Cape Finisterre tomorrow. I asked them whether they might be willing to take along a young woman who desperately wanted to see that place and they said it would be no problem.”
“I won’t go without you,” she pouted.
“Nonsense! They’re really nice people. Look. I’ll stay here and rest, and will wait for you. You’ll be back in a few hours. You can’t miss Cape Finisterre.”
It took me a while, but I was finally able to persuade her to go along with those German tourists. I was certain that that place, which is supposed to have supernatural powers, would have something special in store for her, but I didn’t mention this to her. It only took one cell phone call and we got everything squared away. Next we looked for a place to spend the night and came across an old seminary where they let us stay for free—thanks to the fact that we were now “certified pilgrims.”
By the time I woke up the next morning, Anastasia had already left. She had set off about 5:00 a.m. and I expected her back that same evening.
After all those strenuous and exciting days, I enjoyed having a day of rest all to myself. I slept in, had a sumptuous lunch, and just kicked back. That evening, as I was having dinner near our quarters, I saw her coming from afar, walking down the street with a bounce in her step. I waved to her, eagerly awaiting what she had to say.
“Well, how was it? Tell me!”
She plopped down next to me, ordered something to eat, and looked at me with huge sparkling eyes. I knew something special had happened.
“Arthur, it was simply amazing. Cape Finisterre is incredibly beautiful. It’ll take me a while to process what I experienced today. The sky… the water… the air… and then that incredible feeling...” That was all she said.
The next day we flew back to Germany and, sadly, it didn’t take long at all for us to get back into the rhythm of our lives—she into hers and I into mine. Before long, it was early September and I had to go on several pilgrimages, which took up all of my time. Anastasia called me in mid-December and wished my Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. We didn’t see each other until the following summer.
About that time she called me and we met at that little café around the corner from my apartment, where we had already been several times before. As I walked in the room, she was already waiting, grinning from ear to ear. We hugged and I noticed that something was pulling at her heartstrings. I had barely sat down and it all started bubbling out.
“Arthur, my life has changed.”
“Really—and how?”
“Everything has changed… my private life, my career, my attitude towards life—I can’t believe all of this.”
“Tell me more!”
And then it just started spuming out of her. She told me what she had experienced the past year. Not only had her shaky relationship with her boyfriend greatly improved, now they were even talking about getting married and having children. “We’re so happy, Arthur. We’ve moved in together and are so deeply in love.”
This was incredible. And Anastasia’s professional life had changed as well. She had quit that horrible job in the nightclub and the stint at the fitness center as well. She was now freelancing in a well-known architectural office in Frankfurt and thought it was quite likely they would hire her full-time before long.
“I would never have thought that so many things could turn for the better in one year.”
“What do you think changed everything?” I asked, having a pretty good hunch what was going on.
“I’ve been thinking about that for a long time, Arthur. And I’m convinced it was the Camino. I want to experience that again. That’s right, Arthur, I want to do the Camino again, but this time I want to take the same route that Paulo Coelho took.”
“Whoa…slow down, Anastasia… Let’s first talk about last year. When you were out there, did you experience anything mystical which could be the reason your life has changed so much?”
“Well, on the Camino and after that I didn’t become what you would call a Christian. I still struggle to believe in God. But I do know something was going on. I know I felt something, but I just can’t put my finger on it. I don’t really know what it was.”
“Well, just give it a try…”
“There were a few things that I learned on our pilgrimage, like that I have to be more patient and tolerant, that I shouldn’t give up easily and I need to follow through with things. And, even if it seems a long shot, I have to find a way to reach the hearts of people. Before the Camino I had always focused on myself. The three most important people to me had been me, myself, and I. Before the Camino I hadn’t been very attentive to my fellow humans… to their needs and sorrows.