by Frank Lin
“Get out of the bed! We’re almost there!” A muffled voice like thunder rumbling in the sky threw me out of my sweet slumber. I struggled to sit up, rubbing my eyes and wondering what exactly was meant by the word “here,” only to find myself cooped up in a small space with a single window on one side. Through the window a bleak landscape shrouded with mist was revealed while the room kept moving. Horrified, for a moment I believed I was abducted by aliens, till the idea finally struck my slow brain that I was in a train heading to Santiago de Compostela, a city in the northwest of Spain. Santiago de Compostela, the city which marks the end of my pilgrimage, the Road to Saint James (El Camino de Santiago), which has housed for centuries the relics of the apostle James, allegedly discovered under the basement of the Cathedral (La Catedral). The train stopped. We walked out. The chilly wind came first to greet us, reminding us that it was still quite early, around 5 a.m. The station here, compared with that in Barcelona and Madrid, was small and even shabby, but somehow I felt secure. At least no one stared menacingly. Inside the station it was silent, with only a few passengers at such an early hour. We were quiet, too, tired with all the traveling and lack of sleep. The silence lasted a long while, until it was at length broken by two intruders hurrying into the hall – a middle-aged woman and a young man. As they detected us, they fixed their eyes suspiciously upon us. Reassuring themselves, they pointed at me until they were finally certain of my identity. The woman embraced me and, without asking permission, touched her cheeks with mine, which surprised me a little, and which was afterwards understood as the Spanish way of greeting. As for the young man, to my great relief, he merely shook hands with me and smiled. That was how I met my homestay parents. Sitting in the car, they briefly introduced the city to me, and through the window I had my first glace of the streets in Santiago de Compostela: row after row of stone-built houses; broad roads paved with stone; the solemn churches and city monuments standing on almost every corner – as if the city had never been touched by Time, an outdoor museum. Shortly after we got home, my homestay mother, Anne, proposed to walk to school with me, so I could learn the way. When she told me that it’s around 30 minutes’ walk I was stunned. “It’s a long way. Do I have any alternative?” I asked her. Apparently confused, she answered, “Why? It’s no big deal. I myself walk everyday to work. It takes me 40 minutes.” I vaguely perceived something fundamentally different inside our brains. So from tomorrow to the end of the language course, I, a heavy sleeper who couldn’t even manage to attend class at 10 a.m. in Taiwan, was forced to get up every morning at 7 and walk 30 minutes to school. Somehow I made it. And, though it was bitter to get up so early, the walk itself was quite enjoyable, and somehow it has become the most vivid part of my memory of the city. Every morning, while most townsfolk were still asleep, I slung my bag over my shoulder and set out on my solitary walk to school. The air was cold and refreshing. In the neighborhood all was quiet. Not a living soul was in sight. After a few minutes’ walk the Cathedral, with its towers like two great horns penetrating the sky, gradually revealed itself. “Lift up your head and look for the towers of the Cathedral, and you’ll never get lost,” a local once told me. And indeed, you can always depend on the Cathedral, since it is the highest building in the neighborhood. Turning into a narrow alley I passed a row of seafood restaurants. Santiago is close to the coast, so the city has a daily shellfish supply. Most of the restaurants were still closed, but some had already started to unload their cargo. Not until 3 or 4 p.m., when it is the Spanish time for lunch, will the street be crowed and every restaurant crammed with people. Crossing the restaurant street I proceeded in my solitary saunter. In another five minutes I would arrive at school and end my routine walk. Compared to a real pilgrimage, mine was nothing in length, but the memory of it was so vivid, even glaring, that it seemed to me the only meaningful thing I’d ever done in Spain. Wandering like a ghost in the winding pathways among the historic buildings, I often indulged myself in the pleasure of deliberately getting lost in the city, a city that was incredibly harmonized with history and modern life, for I knew that, whenever I got lost, I could just lift up my head and the Cathedral would always be there. #Volume 8 Issue 1 a
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The Taida Student Journal has been active since 1995 with an ever-changing roster of student journalists at NTU. Click the above link to read about the authors Archives
May 2024
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