And just like that, it was over.

We left the albergue around eight, and made our way down to the bottom of the hill to grab a café con leche. The walk into Santiago would be a short one. After all the kilometers we’d walked, it hardly felt like a walk at all. At the same time, the arrival in Santiago is a bit like a bad joke. You’ve finally arrived, or at least you think you have, only to find out that you have to wind your way through the streets of the new part of town for what seems to take an eternity.

I remembered the last time I’d made this approach, coming through the archway to the sound of bagpipes and walking into the massive Praza de Obradoiro for the very first time. I felt overwhelmed. Alone. And kind of sad. My Camino family had arrived the day before me due to an extra overnight I’d taken in León to heal my badly blistered feet and there was no one I knew to share in my arrival.

Gary and I could see the spires of the cathedral in the distance as we got closer to the old town. Somehow, instead of walking through that same archway to the sound of bagpipes, we ended up entering the square from the opposite side of the cathedral. Instead of the more direct route we wandered through the busy streets of the old town - streets packed with pilgrims who were showered and dressed in clean clothes. Gone were the backpacks that had been their appendage for the past weeks or more. Having finished their walk they walked arm in arm smiling from ear to ear. They mixed with tourists who carried bags of souvenirs and filled the seats in packed cafes reminiscing about the kilometers they’d travelled.

We met Kristen and Malthe a few minutes later and snapped a few family photos. We got a final tinto de verano and took a tour of the cathedral before Kristen had to leave to catch her flight back home. How quickly it all seemed to end. For days there was just one purpose. One goal. To walk. All of us doing the same thing. One step at a time. Trying to savor each moment.

The arrival into Santiago, like the reentry into the world I’d left behind, albeit temporarily, felt abrupt. I checked into my hotel and sprawled out in the bed, the crisp white sheets giving way under the weight of my sweaty body. I felt lost. An emptiness I had not felt in some time. I wanted to get up. To keep going. To wander the streets of Santiago just to have something to do. Endings have always been hard for me.

That night Gary, Malthe and I met Mark and his family for dinner just off the square. We sat under the moonlit sky and told stories till the tables emptied around us. In the morning Mark and his family would be heading to the airport, on to their next adventure. Gary and I would go to Finesterre and then take one last walk to the seaside town of Muxía.

In the back of the square a minstrel band was playing. A crowd had gathered and was singing songs I did not recognize. We clapped along, as an overwhelming joy reverberated through every crevice of the packed space. I soaked it all in. This moment of awe on this random night in June.

This was the Camino de Santiago.