We entered Santiago de Compostela at 2:11 p.m. On foot. We’d been hiking since sunup. Our pace was slow. Our clothes, threadbare. I was muttering the 23rd Psalm—a kind of private meditation on the trail. 

Two tired pilgrims. Thirty-six days on the trail. Five hundred miles. Thousands of public toilets, none of which have been properly cleaned since the installation of the previous pope. 

We looked bad. Smelled bad. Felt good. Splintered rubber, flaking from our soles. Mud-frosted backpacks. Athletic tape, wrapped tightly around my shin-splinted legs. 

For a brief moment, hobbling into Santiago, I wasn’t sure which century we were in. Were we modernized American tourists, trudging across 21st-century Spain, with smartphones in our pockets? Or were we 9th-century pilgrims, desperate and tattered, clad in sandals, clambering to see the remains of history’s first martyred apostle? 

I really couldn’t tell you. 

The cobblestone streets beneath us were ancient, polished smooth from centuries of Reeboks. The crowded sidewalk cafès were serving lunch. Café customers were applauding us pilgrims as we marched slowly past. 

“Vaya!” people were shouting with glee. Shouting and cheering. “Ya estás casi

ahí!” 

At once I saw the ornate campana towers, high in the distance. Taller than everything else. Reaching into the clouds. 

“I can see it!” Jamie shouted. “I see the cathedral tower!”

I started crying. I don’t know why. 

“There it is!” said a few pilgrims. 

Everyone’s pace increased. 

Obradoiro Square was crowded with pilgrims. Thousands. Everywhere. Some lying on the pavement, smoking cigarettes, or taking naps with heads resting on their packs. 

Most were new pilgrims, who just started the trail a few days ago. Young. Cheerful. Still fresh. FaceTiming loved ones. Taking mass selfies. Slapping each other on the backs. Howling loudly, as though their newly…