from my journal, 7-18-04
I got off the train at 7:30 this morning in Santiago. While I was trying (and failing) to understand how to lock my backpack in the consigne, I guess everyone who exited the train with me had already gone.
So it was empty as I walked up the hill towards the center of town. As I got closer, clumps of drunken teenagers materialized, some still clutching their glasses of beer. A pair of weaving girls stopped me to ask where the Praza de Galicia was. I pointed the way because I knew it from looking at the map earlier, but it struck me that you´d have to be pretty drunk to mistake me for someone who knows where she´s going.
I continued going up, out of the new city, following a narrow stone street.
Another group of teenagers noticed me smirking at an enormous padded bra in a store window and struck up a conversation. We continued chatting in english and spanish until one of them cried, "Oh, my head! I can´t think anymore!" and they said their goodbyes.
I made it to the cathedral as the bells rang for 8 o´clock. And what a church! I won´t even bother to try to describe the building itself, but the whole edifice sits on a hill that overlooks misty mountains. I´m sitting in the main plaza now, partly because it´s beautiful and partly because there seem to be fewer groups of winos here than elsewhere.
I´m watching pilgrims arrive, which is a pretty good pastime. A group of bicyclists in bright blue and pink racing uniforms are posing for a portrait in front of the church. Some pilgrims leap for joy or hug one another when they arrive. Some put down their packs, look up, shrug, and move on. I guess everyone has their own way experiencing something they´ve been hiking three weeks to see.
By 10am the narrow streets echo with the clattering of pilgrims´wooden walking sticks.
So it was empty as I walked up the hill towards the center of town. As I got closer, clumps of drunken teenagers materialized, some still clutching their glasses of beer. A pair of weaving girls stopped me to ask where the Praza de Galicia was. I pointed the way because I knew it from looking at the map earlier, but it struck me that you´d have to be pretty drunk to mistake me for someone who knows where she´s going.
I continued going up, out of the new city, following a narrow stone street.
Another group of teenagers noticed me smirking at an enormous padded bra in a store window and struck up a conversation. We continued chatting in english and spanish until one of them cried, "Oh, my head! I can´t think anymore!" and they said their goodbyes.
I made it to the cathedral as the bells rang for 8 o´clock. And what a church! I won´t even bother to try to describe the building itself, but the whole edifice sits on a hill that overlooks misty mountains. I´m sitting in the main plaza now, partly because it´s beautiful and partly because there seem to be fewer groups of winos here than elsewhere.
I´m watching pilgrims arrive, which is a pretty good pastime. A group of bicyclists in bright blue and pink racing uniforms are posing for a portrait in front of the church. Some pilgrims leap for joy or hug one another when they arrive. Some put down their packs, look up, shrug, and move on. I guess everyone has their own way experiencing something they´ve been hiking three weeks to see.
By 10am the narrow streets echo with the clattering of pilgrims´wooden walking sticks.
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