Saying Goodbye to Santiago
…with a bit of chaos thrown in.
“The Camino provides.” —Author unknown…
“and afterward, you say thank you, goodbye, and try to live life like una pelegrina.” —Wayward
The Cathedral is a great place to use up Euros. There are many stations where you can light a votive candle and make an offering. The ritual has always soothed my inner child. She was Catholic. Though my belief system has shifted to the left - the far left - it’s still a place of peace for me. At home, however, I’m more likely to light a candle of hope to bring light into my darkness, or someone else’s. I pray as well, but more organically, often when I’m walking.
As our “Wayward Time” comes to a close - to make room for another script - I thought I’d insert a scene (and a bit) from Wayward between Farren and Dora to show you how I weave my lived experience and Irish ancestry with my love of story. As a reminder, Farren is the lead in the screenplay, a woman who fell apart after the loss of her daughter, her marriage, and her career. She meets Dora as she begins her Camino, a rebellious, half-Spanish/half-Irish, lovelorn teen who’s taken off on her father who runs a tour company and writes Camino travel books. I hope you enjoy it!
And now, back to my real-life, pre-flight candle lighting…
I found a quiet little chapel within the Cathedral with a prayer basket as well as candles. I sat in pew beside it and poured my heart onto several pages in my travel journal, otherwise full of notes about the Camino and ideas for Wayward - one prayer on each. Heavy on my heart was my brother, of course. My concern grew for him with each hour, along with a sense of foreboding and guilt that I’d left. I prayed for each of my children, separately, and their family situations. I prayed for a breakthrough in my writing - to be discovered so it wouldn’t all have been in vain. The intention was never to write for me but for those who may watch my screenplays given life - produced and shown in theaters or in the comfort of home. I prayed for other loved ones as well. For the homeless. For the world. And for Christine. Each prayer had its own page and I read them through as I lit a candle to go with each. And then I folded each, with a wayward corner flipped up, the way I do when I enter a draw, for good luck. I got up, put all the prayers in the basket, gathered my purse, and left the chapel.
Christine | A Roma in Santiago, Spain
Before heading back to my hotel to pack, I went to say goodbye to Christine. I hadn’t seen her for several days and was a bit worried. If you didn’t read the whole Wayward blog series, I met the lovely Roma woman when I first arrived in Santiago de Compostella and wrote about the significance of our meeting. Today, I found her where I had the first time, on her knees not far from the bagpiper at the main pilgrims’ entrance to the square, and invited her to share a meal with me. She was elated. We went to a nearby restaurant and I ordered a large bowl of seafood soup with crusty bread and offered to cover the cost for whatever she wanted, nudging her toward something substantial and nutritious. All she wanted was chocolate milk and fries. Well didn’t that tug at my maternal heartstrings?
We didn’t share a vocabulary other than a few words, but we both had translation apps on our phones. She showed me photos of her home, family, and children, and updated me on her father’s health issues, the ones that had her living with him in Santiago while he received medical care. I showed her a photo of my brother and talked of his despairing state. As the conversation went on, I began to feel that she was spinning her story to gain my sympathy and possibly some financial support. I took closer note of her appearance: nice shoes, a fairly new cell phone, and a trendy puffy jacket on the seat beside her. Christine had good taste. A dark cloud of doubt entered the restaurant and sat down beside me. It reminded me of the way my brother sometimes spun his stories. Sometimes they were webs to catch me when I was unintentionally enabling. Sometimes they were the spin of a washing machine, agitating and gaining speed before the frenzied cycle of truth-telling ended and he could rest, drained. I felt cynicism growing in my heart and countered it by telling her of my own struggles, of how I’d saved for this trip and had little to spare - how I understood her family obligations as I had my own.
Our meal ended on a positive note despite the feeling that I’d likely been played. Like my brother, there was always a kernel of truth, a need for the hug of human kindness. She had, after all, helped me give my compassion muscle a workout. What was a little extra burn? After paying the bill and leaving a tip, I gave her the balance from the bill, enough to cover a healthier meal on her own. We hugged and parted. Then I made the long walk back to my hotel to pack, ruminating on our conversation, and noticing another Roma woman in a similar pose in the square, and then another on a sidestreet. I didn’t like where my heart was taking me. In the end, my intentions had been kind and honorable. Or had they? Had I used her to assuage my guilt over leaving Sean - despite his urging and my need for respite and time to pursue my writing career?
When I got back to the hotel and began packing, I realized that my travel journal - with all my notes - was missing. My “raison d’etre” for this trip - so many bits of information about settings, and history to weave into dialogue that I would not be able to remember, at least not with clarity or ease - was evaporating. It felt like the end of the world. In a panic, I rushed back to the restaurant, but it wasn’t there. With a frazzled mind, I retraced my steps and ran to the Cathedral, cutting close to their closing time. This was not the energy I wanted to finish my day or my pilgrimage on. I rushed to the little alcove where I’d left my prayers in the basket, and found my journal on the floor by the pew where I’d sat. I scrounged in my purse for the Euro for another candle, lit it, and cried as I gave thanks and prayed for travel mercies on my return home.
What “end of the world” moments have you had that you might repurpose with your pen?
Which is worse - a bad start to a holiday or a bad ending?
Ultreia! Forward, together.
