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Work. Write. Photograph. I've got 100 days to figure out India.

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No more miles left. Finesterra, where the Romans thought the world came to an end.

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Day 40

It’s an analogue to life. Of course it is. We walk the way we live: with integrity or not, in generosity or aggravation, frustration or acceptance.

I saw the cathedral and cried. Like an idiot. Like I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in a hundred years. Like I had walked 500 miles. There was no feeling of accomplishment. Just: Now I can stop.

I ran into a friend and was embarrassed—and he said it was ok, he cries every day. Together we felt like weirdos, but not worse than those who tried but could not.

If it were I, not the priest, to give the pilgrim’s blessing, this would be my benediction:

May you live your life in such a way, that when your feet have nowhere left to walk, you stop, you set down your bag—and what you feel is gratitude.

“There’s an old joke: uh, two elderly women are at a Catskill mountain resort, and one of them says, “Boy, the food at this place is really terrible." The other one says, “Yeah, I know, and such small portions." - Woody Allen, Annie Hall

The end.

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And just like that, it’s all over.

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Santiago Cathedral.

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Last walk.

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Last day. 5 am. Headlamp. Lost in the woods. Now on my way again.

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Day 39: Attenuated End

Today I ran. I sent my pack ahead and felt the freedom of walking unburdened. I thought that maybe I should feel bad about it, but how would I ever know how good it felt to walk without it, if I never let it go? It’s like training at a high altitude and then coming back to earth—you feel superhuman when you move.

The slow ending of things. I guess I like to stretch out endings like long elastics until they lose their snap. I’m the type that slowly and methodically works away at bandaids—anything to avoid the sting. As I wander into Santiago tomorrow, taking note of all the signs and feelings related to the end, in order to protract it, I wonder if I’ll be sad to see it go. Or if I’ll just be relieved. Maybe I’ll mourn the lost potential—what this trip could have been, had things been different, even slightly. The ways I could have grown—pushed myself to be more courageous, less dependent on money, less aloof, less scared, more grateful, more present.

But I think that an exercise in judging yourself against an ideal is a flawed one—though it is an activity I partake in frequently. What I would like to contemplate tomorrow is how I can go home and preserve some sense of peace and perspective, which I certainly have gained, some faith in the goodness of others, some forgiveness for myself.

I thought today for a very long time about how I have always thought I was too self-involved and self-focused. But I think that what I object to in myself is not actually that, as much as it is the lengths to which I will go to prevent uncontrolled loss—the manufacture and mastery of my environment: people, food, money—contingency plan upon contingency plan, dependency of others, independence of myself. It took me about 480 miles to come to this notion—will I be able to transport it home and make it mean something?

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The last third of the penultimate cafe con leche.

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Day 37: Mendicant Nunsense

My clothes are in the dryer. I haven't stayed in a shared room in almost a week now. Some mentally-challenged American girl decided to announce to the world that she had bedbugs, and that was the end of my interest in hostel living. I suggested she be quarantined, but she left before I could get to her. So here I am on a terrace with a cocktail. And it's great. It feels like being home. But what happened to having friends? How do I meet people when I am not forced to shower, eat and sleep with them? And is it worth it? Luxury, it seems, comes with a price tag. An unexpected one. Two days left. What do I expect? I'm not sure. I am already so focused on being home. All day while walking I planned what I would buy, what I would eat, what I would wear, who I would see, what massage appointments I would make. What kind of plays are on discount? Are there any good Groupons? When people would ask me about the Camino, I would politely decline and say, "Enough about me, let's talk about you." What could anyone understand about it anyway? And I think I am a bit done talking about it. At this point, I have no idea what the significance of it is. I Facebook-messaged a friend of mine on some stupid topic, and he said: "It's obvious you haven't changed much..." And it kind of stung. But why? Was I supposed to change? Am I supposed to be Mother Theresa all of the sudden? Or join some group of Mendicant nuns and walk around barefoot eating roots and praying for the kindness of strangers? Some people really do end up reorienting their lives. I found a little friend of mine sleeping in the forest with some hippie stoners, which was, trust me, a change for him. And maybe he'll never leave and seamlessly integrate into a family of forrest trolls. I don't know, maybe that would be nice? But maybe for me it's too late.

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Well, One gets out of bed And the planets don't always hiss Or muck up the day, each day. As for the pain and its multiplying teaspoon, Perhaps it is a medicine That will cure the soul Of its greed for love Next Thursday.

Anne Sexton

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Day 36: Before the World Was Made

I told someone today that my superficiality was found late in life. Well, as late in life as around 20 can be. The only store I ever went to for the first 18 years of my life was K-Mart. We were talking about it because I was stuck on this idea I had found comfort in from the very start: When I get to the end, I am going to have the right to be beautiful again, I am going to wear makeup again, I am going to wear dresses all day long and buy myself some really new and beautiful clothes. I going to suit up for work, cut my hair and wear red lipstick and I am going to feel like myself. "I am pretty in real life, I promise," I found myself saying to people along the way. And slowly, slowly, I began to find that my black pants, fleece and sandals became a part of me--like they grew from my body. I've talked before about the sort of uniformity of the walker's outfit, but maybe not so much about the freedom in it. I am pestered by this Yeats poem: If I make the lashes dark And the eyes more bright And the lips more scarlet, Or ask if all be right From mirror after mirror, No vanity's displayed: I'm looking for the face I had Before the world was made. What if, when I get to Santiago, nothing makes me more beautiful than I already am? What if there is nothing that has that ability? What if searching for the platonic ideal in yourself is a pursuit in vain, and accepting what you have is what gives you power.

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These feet were made for drinking.

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100 km left. Now the fake pilgrims jump on because it's the last point to start and still get a certificate...lame. Sometimes I'm a hater. I can't help it.

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Portomarin.