Santiago dances in shapes and colors.

It is not monumental buildings, but ancient giants that move too slowly for us to notice. It is not wide-eyed travelers with blisters and knee braces, but a millenium and more of completion etched into the sweaty forehead lines of every pilgrim. As the backpack-clad tromp down the great stone steps toward the door where they will enter the Cathedral, as millions have before them, they share the same look. It is confused and resolute at the same time, as if know that "this is it" and wondering if, "this is it?"

The city glows in twighlight golden.

As the curtain falls on another day, the Gallego Celtic band sets fire to the Plaza do Toural. Lutes, wind, sunset, harps, bagpipes, drums, hair flung in dancing, muscles moving without command, long shadow light that fades to night. Its fairy tale music.

Santiago burns in a world of Forms. It is not a city in a moment, but an endless stream of people irrevocably connected throughout the ebb and flow of centuries.

I don´t know what it all means yet.

C and I will split up for the first time on Friday. She´s going to Lisbon; I´m walking to Finesterre, "the end of the world" to medieval Europe. We´ll be back in Santiago on the 19th. Talk to you then