It was quiet as we climbed to Monte de Gozo, as if the higher we got bits of the Earth fell away, until all that remained was grasses rustling, breeze breathing softly, pilgrims far behind murmuring, a few lone trees -- tall and dark -- and so much sky.
The man running the albergue, with beds for 500 in rows of postapocalyptic motel buildings that end in a deserted commercial center, welcomed us with warmth and perceptive honesty. He shook our hands and said this was our home and made a joke about the Mexican border. He told us the hotel restaurant was expensive and the name of the supermarket. I realize I don't know his name.
The Williams's family came out from Santiago to meet us, an overwhelming wave of excitement and squirrely children and finality. Tomorrow we walk the 5 km into Santiago, go to pilgrim's mass, get our compostela certificate. We've already started talking in past tense about our daily routines and helados. Tomorrow, we watch the arc of the massive swinging incense holder in the cathedral, falling toward Earth only to rise heavenward again. Tomorrow, a passing shadow on the mountain face, an open gate, a long-awaited rest for weary feet already aching to be useful again.
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