Day Thirty-Nine: Cee to Finisterra

We didn’t leave at seven. Or at eight. It was almost nine before Alyssa and Eva emerged, Ginnyclock notwithstanding. Last night’s drinks had taken a toll on everyone, my head was pounding and my liver sang the song of its people.

Thee liters of water and coffee later, we felt ready to tackle the eight kilometers to Finisterre. Alyssa had sent her backpack ahead to reserve a spot at one of the albergues closest to the bus terminal, which she’d stay at to take the early bus at five tomorrow. Ginny didn’t seem too fazed by the prospect of arriving late at her next stop, and Eva and Inga only minded their own nursed hangover.

We left Cee, climbed a steep set of stairs over the city’s surrounding hills, and once again were rewarded with beautiful sights. My hangover slowly subsided, which was a good thing, considering the steep next ascent. “Worse than Roncesvalles,” Eva moaned. “Worse than Switzerland,” Ginny agreed. “Worse than my Ex’ constant bitching,” Inga added, and everyone conceded defeat.

We stopped at a bar and drank more coffee and water, even Eva seemed to have returned to the living, thanks to the strenuous climb, and finally descended into the cove surrounding Finisterre. A long beach led to the town’s center, lined with bars and cafés. Ginny, now slightly nervous about the coming kilometers, made a decision. She’d stay with us, but would walk to Muxia by herself. A quick call later, and we had her in a room next to ours at the hotel we were staying at.

A little more relaxed now, we stopped at two more cafés, drank and laughed, and passed through town towards the lighthouse marking the 0,0 point of most people’s voyage.

The walk was longer than anticipated and the mile marker overrun with pilgrims and tourists alike taking pictures and chatting excitedly. We waited our turn, took photos in all possible variations, including one of all of us with the help of two passing Japanese tourists, and turned around. “Ok, this was a little less anticlimactic, but it’s still not it,” Eva exclaimed.

“For me it was,” Alyssa said, before we dropped her off at her albergue with clear instructions as to where to meet us for dinner, and found our hotel in the hills behind town, overlooking the beach towards the sunset.

“No burning clothes, no swimming nude, no sleeping on the beach,” the concierge warned us. Apparently, lore had it, that you would have to burn one item, then go for a nude swim, and once you woke up the next morning, all your dreams would come true.” “Fuck that,” Eva exclaimed at the room while we showered, “I want to burn my undies and swim nude.” “You go girl, I’ll join,” Inga added.

It was too early to head for dinner and the town had just shut down for siesta, so we did the same. Or tried to. The things you do, when you’re uncertain if you ever get to do them again in a week. Until, of course, Ginny knocked and demanded company on a shopping trip.

Inga decided to stay and sleep, Eva joined her, but I sorely missed real pants for a night’s out, so we went downtown and bought a pair. “Shoes, too?” Ginny asked, and we did. “And a nice T-Shirt?”

We bought two Camino shirts for the girls reading “Game Over 0,0” on the front and “Fisterra” on the back, a plain black one for me to wear tonight, and one more of the 0,0 ones as a souvenir.

Dinner was great. The bar, advertised as “vegan and hippie,” did not disappoint, and we started a long conversation with Sabine, the waitress.

On her recommendation we made our way across the hills to the beach below our hotel, where we sat and watched the sunset until a curse behind me made me turn around. Eva, in the nude, did not manage to light her undies in the wind coming from the sea, so we corralled around her, then Inga, to do the deed. Both ran into the surf for a second, returned shivering and slightly unhappy, before explaining the reason to two perplexed pilgrims and a group of very “excited” young male travelers from Iceland.

Alyssa had a longer way to her albergue, and so we said our goodbyes. Numbers were exchanged, promises to stay in contact given, and she turned to leave, a vasty different woman than the one I’d met weeks ago. “You’re still not my type, Mikka, but I’d walk with you again in a heartbeat,” she proclaimed, then disappeared up the wooden walkway towards town.

We left as well, spending some more time at the hotel’s bar, and broke for the night. Ginnyclock would wake us at six, so we could say goodbye before splitting up.

Eva and Inga went to wash the sand from places it did definitely not belong, we curled up and, after a few minutes, decided that we were too tired for much more than sleep, which we did. I dreamed of swimming naked in the ocean.