Santiago de Compestela

This past weekend I went on one of Suffolk University’s excursions to the northwest corner of Spain, the region of Galicia. Galicia, and the town of Santiago de Compestela in particular, is a special place. There they have their own dialect- a sort of Spanish-Portuguese hybrid, and their own rich history. But this is not quite where the story begins...

Sitting in my kitchen a few days before I was leaving for Galicia an argument broke out at dinner. I told my host mother I was going away this weekend, and where I was going. Pedro, my oldest brother told me the bus ride could be as long as ten horas. My sister Anna insisted this was ridiculous- it would only be seis horas, mas o menos. Borja, my other brother, said no, no it depended on traffic (I think), it could be nueve, o diez. Mercedes laughed and said authoritatively that it could certainly be only about ocho horas. While the four of them argued their logic the Spanish language dissolved into something more basic - human language. I could have very well been sitting in my kitchen at home taking part in the same frivolous argument with my biological siblings. It was amazing how without understanding the language itself I understood the entire dynamic of the conversation as if it was in my mother tongue. 

So I had everyone register official guesses and as it turned out my host mother was closest. The ride was eight hours. 

We left school at midnight Friday morning. The first thing I noticed when we arrived was the familiar charming humidity of the air, particularly crisp as the sun rose in a firery blaze over a grassy green hill. I felt at home. We ventured up a series of windy and narrow cobble stone streets into the old part of the city- the medieval part. Colorful crenellated banners spanned the width of the street in a festive atmosphere. The city was alive. Blacksmiths were hard at work- sweaty and dirty despite the fact it was only nine in the morning. Vendors aggressively tried to sell their souvenirs, mostly seashells and walking sticks- the traditional symbols of the pilgrimage that ends in this city. People choose a method of transportation and come primarily from France through the terrain of northern Spain to see the Cathedral of Saint James in Santiago. Yes, it is a long walk. And although I didn’t do the pilgrimage myself I can say it must be well worth the spectacle. 

The Cathedral of Santiago de Compestela is daunting. Its massive and ornate, and we had the opportunity to climb up countless stairs and take a tour of the roof. The sun was beating down on us and I regretted wearing all black- but the panoramic view was priceless. How many times have you walked across the roof of a cathedral built nearly ten centuries ago? From that high you can see, but not hear, the hustle bustle you were just moments walking through. The breeze blows in your face and there’s a tranquil silence. 

Back in the streets modern day pilgrims are all around you. Not with funny hats and buckled shoes like most Americans picture them- but with bandanas and backpacks and walking sticks and seashells, glistening with sweat from the unrelenting midday sun. Their hands are calloused and dirty- they look like they’ve just walked hundred of miles, and many of them have. The markets are bustling- crowded with throngs of people buying fresh cheese, cured meats, spices, and died fabrics. There’s a certain medieval charm, a liveliness in the air. 

Of course this region has more to offer than the cathedral- and that is, chiefly, seafood. We dined like kings in the town that evening- with fresh ensalada de pulpo (octopus salad), and fried calamari. One afternoon for lunch I had amazing fish, the name of which I would know if I spoke Spanish. Then that night, I had wood-fire barbecued ribs in the heart of the old town. The man who served them to me looked a little medieval chopping them with a blunt axe and wiping the sweat off his brow with his other hand, but they tasted amazing. 

This trip was amazing because if history isn’t your thing maybe you would appreciate the artistically astounding architecture of the cathedral. And if architecture isn’t you thing maybe you’d just like the food. And if food isn’t your thing I don’t know what to tell you- except that maybe our trip to the beach would make up for that. It was a packed weekend, and after eight hours on that bus I was ready to sleep in my own bed before class monday morning. But despite how tired I was it took me some time to fall asleep with all these thoughts rolling around in my brain about how many more little cities like that there are to see in Spain. I guess I’ve got my work cut out for me if I’m going to see them all...