Summer Vacay, 2021. Day 1

Sandy and I hanging out.

Seattle to Santiago de Compostela

July 25, 2021

I am sort of delightfully hung-over. I know “delightful” and “hung-over” don’t belong in the same sentence.  But there it is. I’m on vacation, a euphamisim for we’re here to establish an Italian domicile (more about that much later,) and the previous night was a ball.

It took three planes and and two taxis, in less than 24 hours, for Sandy and me to arrive last night at our destination, Santiago de Compostela. We are just in time for St James Day celebrated on July 25th. St James, aka Santiago, is the raison d’être for the existence of the Camino de Santiago, and this year his name day is extra special because it lands on a Sunday. We are here to take part in the festivities that include fireworks, mass, the King and Queen of Spain, and a whole lotta food.

Masks are worn everywhere and it feels like a no-thing in Santiago. COVID is a big thing flying and entering foreign countries, so our documentation of vaccinations, tests, and specific QR codes for different countries was well planned.

We slept in and would not have woken but for a gentle rapping on the door. It was room service with breakfast, preordered the night before and it was now 10:00am. The young man delivering our food started giggling when I opened the door. I took the espresso-croissant-OJ, no protein b’fast and closed the door. Then I realized I was in Sandy’s t-shirt with one neon green ear plug hanging out of my left auditory orifice.

Since Sandy doesn’t eat red meat, this was all mine.

It took another round of OJ and espresso for me to get to the point of being hungry. Must have been the huge plate of Jambon, bread and cheese from last night at 12:30am tiding me over: the Spanish do not hold back on their ham portions. It’s astonishing. And no doubt my wine order, that some how grew from a glass to a split between ordering and delivery, which I consumed while watching this exuberant city pre-party before the official party began, contributed heavily to my current state.

My writing brain hasn’t made much of an appearance lately, but the moment I saw two Instagramers running through the crowded streets of Santiago de Compostela in their official running gear, breathlessly videoing themselves with a hand held iPhone, blithely blowing past pilgrims while relaying their experience to the Insta World, I thought “here we go!” I obeyed the muse and started taking  notes.

This town is alive with good will and pilgrims. Limping pilgrims. Groups of pilgrims all wearing matching sweat-shirts. Groups walking and merrily singing. Pilgrims with walking poles tripping others with their poles, or hitting the innocent by cleverly storing their sticks in a horizontal fashion in their back packs snd then cruising through the crowded streets.

I am confronted by my longstanding dislike of being associated with any group. I’ve packed almost nothing that marks me as a pilgrim, coming this year as a tourist, except my Traffic Cone Orange REI light weight down jacket that absolutely screams “I’m a pilgrim!” But wear it I must because it’s actually raining here.

I never liked being bundled into the grouping of “yoga teacher” because I felt I could never undo the assumptions that went with it. An exception to the group phobia, however, is the Pastor’s Wife category. For one thing, no one believes me so there’s that. But I am so far outside the stereotype of what a PW acts and dresses like that I still enjoy the response I get from the unsuspecting.

It used to be that my hair screamed “OTHER,” a category I have a tolerant relationship with. My hair is naturally gray, hilarious that I need to stipulate it’s natural, and cut short in a Denice the Menace do. But style has changed since our last visit here. Many women have given up bottled coloring, unless they are dying it gray since it has became fashionable. The result is I’m now in a burgeoning new category: that of older women who don’t dye their hair and also have short stylin’ cuts to go with it. I hate being assimilated.

So much for the gray hair but the orange coat lives on.

©Theresa Elliott, All Rights Reserved