Walking a little more slowly

We are now three days away from Santiago. I was caught off guard a couple of day´s ago when one of our friends pointed out just how close we were. It´s hard to believe after living for a month this daily lifestyle of wake-walk-wind down that it could actually come to an end. Nevertheless, I happen to disagree with the common truism that all good things come to an end. My time here in Spain will unavoidably end on the predetermined date, but the seeds have already been planted for a number of ways in which this experience will live on once I return to life as usual back in the States.
Two days ago as I was approaching the end of our descent from O´Cebreiro and the day´s hike, I began having the feeling that there was something familiar about the stone walls lining the path and small farming villages dotting the hillside. Soon enough I stumbled upon incontrovertible proof--a 100+ year old tree at the edge of the village of Triacastella. This tree is the very first landmarker (I´ve passed several by now) I remember from my first experience on the camino. At this point, every day is a walk through more or less familiar ground, yet these two experiences could not be any more different. Our evening in Triacastella was a good one: We attended mass with a priest who was rather unorthodox but teeming with love. A few pilgrims actually shed some tears, so moved were they by the priest and the service. When we returned to the albuergue to bed down for the night, our ears were immediately met with what may very well be the most horrendous snoring we´ve heard yet (no small feet). After a few pilgrims tried to jar the snorer out of his rhythm with whistling and other noises, we simply fell to laughing, so ridiculous was the scene.
The next day found us in Sarria, where the Feast of St. John the Baptist was underway. Really the festivities did not begin until midnight or so, at which time everyone in the town from the youngest toddler to oldest senior citizen was out in the streets celebrating. There were live bands, dancing in the streets, carnival rides, overpriced treats--all of which we were able to enjoy thanks to a permissive hospitalero (person in charge of the albuergue), who agreed to leave a window open for us to crawl back in through once we´d had our fun. Some of you might be reading this thinking ¨carnival rides and midnight carousing--some pilgrimage.¨ I would respond with something uttered by our friend Greg (sadly now departed back to the States). Walking the camino, you wander through the whole spectrum of life, from small provincial towns to big cities and everything in between. No doubt this is a very different experience than that endured by early pilgrims who traversed its many miles on their knees in penitence for their sins, but it has been instructive in its own way and I promise you we´ve all had ample opportunities to atone for our misdeeds.
A final thought for the day. Yesterday I asked Barbie if she was getting excited with Santiago now looming so near. After a pause she replied simply, ¨Not really. I´m just walking.¨ I must admit I´ve been walking a bit more slowly myself since then. As time has passed, my perspective here has inevitably shifted. Coming closer to my physical destination, it´s hard to prevent my thoughts from shifting to the mentality of one running a race. Yet this camino was never about simply getting to Santiago. I came for the walk and for the people I´d meet along the way. I´m grateful to have been reminded of that.