Unfortunate Cornfields..

"Jim, you totally suck! You had a wild party without me.. I had to read about it in the newspaper!!" James looks sheepishly at the ground,"Yeah, it was quite the fete...but you will be here soon and I hear that you are bringing cake."

I looked over at Marion in the dark, her eyes open, her hands reaching for her phone to check the time. I could hear Genevieve rustling around in the bunk above me. "It´s time," we whisper, sneaking quietly out of the albergue and stealing into the cool humid night air. We looked at eachother, each with a mischievous gleam and a silent smile. "Thirly kilometers to cover and it´s only 2am... we will meet James by morning." We head off on the path through dense forests, our walking sticks clicking, our tiny flashlights flickering, the air smelling of warm pine, dogs alone announcing our arrival into each tiny town between us and Santiago. Distorted shadows danced before us as a moonless sky dangled massive stars above our heads with the big dipper looking close enough to scoop us up and deposit us at James´ feet...

I had considered leaving a note of apology for the farmer but I didn´t know how to word it in spanish.. 

"To the owner of this lovely cornfield, I am truly, TRULY sorry about what I did in your field. I realize that there is nothing that those particular stalks of corn did to deserve such a fate.. But believe me when I say; James made me do it!" I had made it successfully through my entire pilgrimage with my stomach in tact but James said that he wanted my last night to be a truly memorable story. So it was not until my final race to Santiago that I was brought low by a questionable creamy dessert at dinner. However, one is not a true pilgrim until one has pooped in a pitch black forest at four in the morning...and again one hour later in the aformentioned unfortunate cornfield. 

We could tell that our pilgrimage was in its final days when our conversations had changed from deep conversations about love, family and the meaning of life to food, poop, and sex and a ranking of their importance. Everyone seemed to have an engaging embarrasing story of loose bowels. Genevieve had her moment while hiding behind a garbage can, praying that no one would look out the window during seista, and Matt had a period of a couple days when he would just disappear midsentence in a mad race for a toilet (or a large bush.) And as for food conversations.. I have learned never to mention that I am hungry to anyone who is french as that person will immediately begin to describe delicious foods with such eloquence and poetry that I begin to hallucinate.. 

The sun had risen over the trees, filtering through a misty haze. A frail rainbow rose above the western horizon pointing us on to Santiago. Marion, Genevieve and I stopped five kilometers outside of the city, momentarily afraid to go on. "Are we ready to finish?" We had lit two candles the day before to celebrate Genevieve´s two months on the camino. She and Marion were about to finish a journey of 1600 kilometers from Le Puy to Santiago, twice my distance of a mere 800km. We were nervous. We walked anxiously through the outskirts of town, straining our necks for a glance of the cathedral spires. One block away we saw the church peaking through the beautiful old buildings and our hearts sped. Our tired feet raced and as we burst into the open courtyard of James´ house, we burst into tears. We had arrived; tarte de Santiago and champagne (cava) in hand.(note to self.. never buy cheap champagne when in the presence of anyone french.. it´s not worth the amount of time they will spend bitching..) We ate drank and cried, smiles beaming through our tears.

"I loved having you here, I hope you know that you can come back anytime!" James says with the warmth of an indulgent uncle."Really Jim? Thanks! How does next week work for you?"

Well, Hello Jim!!