Bryce & Damon in Europe
by Pertinax Carrus
Chapter 3, Santiago de Compostela
On the Road
Bryce and Damon left Fatima after lunch on Saturday, June 5, heading north on the same highway they had used between Lisbon and Fatima, the A1. Bryce had figured a total of over 260 miles for this trip, taking about five hours. When working out his itinerary, he figured that it would be safest to plan on making about 55 miles per hour, as he knew some roads were better than others, and there were stops to pay tolls at various places. In addition, there would be a stop when they crossed the border from Portugal into Spain. For the most part, the itinerary was flexible enough that a little over or under this estimate would not cause problems. He had also made a note to himself that crossing the border also involved a time change, like going from one time zone to another at home. It was one hour later in Spain than in Portugal. Other than the international flights across the Atlantic, and the time change from Eastern to Central time at home, this would be their only time change on the trip.
As they traveled north, they stopped twice to change drivers. Bryce was aware that Damon had not slept well the night before, and so insisted on taking two turns for his one driving. During the initial period, Damon gratefully napped, but did not fall deeply asleep, coming wide awake when Bryce pulled into a rest area. After answering the call of nature and picking up a snack, they were back on the road with Damon at the wheel. It was soon obvious that Damon had something on his mind, but was not quite prepared to talk about it. Finally, after about a half hour at the wheel, he burst out.
“If something like what you guys claimed happened at Fatima is real, why are there so many people who don’t even believe in God?”
Bryce cautiously responded, “I can’t get into someone else’s head. All I can do is guess at how others think. You might remember that I recently received in the mail that biography of St. Peter by Michael Grant, a British historian, that I was looking forward to.”
After knowing Bryce for most of the past year, Damon figured that the apparent change of topics would eventually be resolved in some way, so he answered, “Yeah. You didn’t like it much after you got it.”
“No. In the introductory chapter Grant makes statements – I can’t recall his exact words – which more or less say that anything miraculous is automatically not historical. He then goes on to say that it is the historian’s task to recount what actually happened. Well, that seems to me to be begging the question, or arguing in circles. Before even beginning his investigation, he has ruled out the possibility that miracles actually happened. That does not seem to me to be good historical method, any more than automatically including accounts of miraculous events simply because we want to believe in them.”
“Um, I guess I can see that,” Damon conceded. “It’s kind of like saying US troops never committed any atrocities in wartime because we’re the good guys, and good guys don’t commit atrocities.”
“Yeah. If you start off with a bias for or against any interpretation of events, you are very likely going to end up with a conclusion which, at best, gives only a partial account of what actually happened,” Bryce said. “Now, as I see it, to get to your initial question, a lot of people don’t take something like Fatima into account when working out their ideas about God and the universe because they’ve already decided before they begin that miracles don’t happen, just like Michael Grant did.”
“So, what do they do with something witnessed by 70,000 people?” Damon probed.
“Mass hysteria. Some natural phenomenon having to do with weather. Or the standard fall back, a mystery of nature which future science will undoubtedly explain,” Bryce said, not without some exasperation.
“Okay,” Damon replied, and lapsed into meditation.
As they neared the Douro River in northern Portugal, there was a sign pointing to the west and the city of Oporto. For the first time since his question about Fatima, Damon showed an interest in the countryside through which they were passing. There were vineyards visible in several directions.
“What’s that?” Damon asked.
“Vineyards,” Bryce monosyllabically replied.
“You mean places where they make wine?” Damon persisted.
“Yeah. Or at least where they grow the grapes. This northern part of Portugal is the center of the port wine country. In fact, port wine is so called for the city on that sign we just passed, Oporto,” Bryce declared.
“Really? I thought it was for some port city somewhere. You know, where ships come and go,” Damon admitted.
“Well, Oporto was called that because it is a port city. In Roman times it was called Portus Cale, or Warm Port. Its prosperity rested historically on the wine trade. The wine of the region was exported through Oporto, so in places like England it was called the wine of Oporto, or simply port. In fact, the country is named for this city, too,” Bryce stated.
“No kidding? The whole country?” Damon said, growing interested.
“Yeah. Back in the Middle Ages, all of the Iberian peninsula was a battleground between Christianity and Islam. A French nobleman, Henry of Burgundy, came down here to fight the Moslems. He was very successful, and ended up marrying the daughter of the local king, and was made Count of Oporto. In the next generation, his son became an independent king, and his territory came to be called Portugal rather than Oporto. Then later with the help of Northern Europeans on their way to the crusades they captured Lisbon, and eventually the center of the country moved further south,” Bryce the historian propounded.
“But the wine is still important? There are a lot of vineyards,” Damon noticed.
“Oh yes. Port wine is shipped all over the world from here,” Bryce agreed.
When they reached the Portuguese/Spanish border, along with their passport check, they pulled into a service station to refuel. In addition to informing his American Express, Visa, and MasterCard accounts that he would be in Europe, Bryce had also cleared it with his gasoline credit cards, so he pulled out his Shell card.
Damon glanced at the posted prices. “Hey, gas is cheap here. That looks like $1.34.8 per gallon.”
Bryce laughed. “Wrong on both counts. That’s not dollars, and that’s not gallons. What you are looking at is 1.348 Euros per liter. To get an equivalent, you have to change Euros into dollars and liters into gallons. At the current rate of exchange,” Bryce said as he pulled out his phone with a calculator function, “that amounts to about $6.25 per gallon.”
“You’re kidding!” Damon exclaimed.
“Nope. Gas in Europe has always been about twice what it is at home. Oh, and don’t forget, here what fuels a car is ‘petrol.’ Gas is something like helium in balloons, or something you get from eating beans,” Bryce laughed.
“Foreigners screwing up our language,” Damon muttered.
There at the stop on the highway they sampled the port wine for which the region was famed. Then, Bryce took over driving for the remaining portion of their trip into Santiago.
Santiago de Compostela
They made their way into the old city, where they located their hotel, the Hotel Gastronomico San Miguel, located logically enough on the Plaza San Miguel, not far from the cathedral and the center of attractions. They would be staying two nights, and so were pleased to find a clean and comfortable room awaiting them. They got checked in and settled, then went out to explore the town. They easily located the Plaza de Obradoiro, or Workshop Square, not named by one of the left wing regimes which had ruled Spain from time to time, but for the work stations once located there of the artisans who constructed the cathedral during the Middle Ages. The local dialect called it praza rather than plaza. In fact, the language of Galicia, that northwestern extremity of Spain, has more in common with Portuguese than with standard Castilian Spanish. The temperature was in the high 50s, and there was no rain, although at the hotel they had been informed that it had rained earlier in the day. Galicia was the wettest part of Spain, but the rains came most from late fall into early spring. From here, they moved onto Plaza da Quintana, behind (east of) the cathedral, where they found a nice sidewalk restaurant and had a seafood dinner, although neither was willing to try the local delicacy called pulpo, a species of cooked octopus.
Wandering about the old part of town after eating, Damon noticed a rainbow sign at a place called Forum. They paid a small fee and entered. The place was small, and very crowded on a Saturday night. Almost all the customers were male. Music was playing at such a volume that normal conversation was impossible, but they approached the bar and managed to get two glasses of red wine. Sipping their drinks, they were approached by a rough looking fellow, who loudly demanded something, but they could not understand his Galician and he evidently had no English. After a few frustrating moments, the stranger was beginning to get hostile. At that point, a fourth person, a younger man, stepped in.
“May I be of service?” he said, with a British accent.
“Oh, thank you,” Bryce said, much relived. “This fellow wants something, but we have no idea what, and he seems to be getting agitated about it.”
The young man spoke to the older one in what was apparently the Galician language. He then blushed some, but turned to Bryce and Damon. “I’m afraid he’s rather crude. He wants to have sex with you, both of you at the same time.”
Not knowing how the older man would take it if he laughed, Bryce restrained himself. He said to their translator, “Tell him we appreciate the compliment, but we are partners, and do not have sex with anyone else.”
This was translated to the importunate suitor, who spat something at them and stalked off.
“What did he say?” Bryce asked.
“It was not very polite,” the young man said. But, seeing curiosity rather than hostility in the faces of both Bryce and Damon, he added, “He called you bourgeois cocksuckers.”
At that, both Bryce and Damon laughed. They introduced themselves, and thanked the young man for his assistance.
“My name is Manuel Calero. I am a student at the university here. You are Americans, no?”
“Yes, we are. We are traveling in Europe during the summer, but the rest of the year we are also university students. I am called Bryce Winslow, and my partner is Damon Watkins.”
“Ah, such strange names. But I am very happy to meet you. Are you staying in Santiago long?” Manuel asked.
“No. We just arrived a few hours ago, and we leave on Monday,” Bryce replied.
“What a shame. But let me show you some of Santiago. You will visit the cathedral, of course. Everyone does, even the atheists. But there are other things to see and do.”
Manuel then took them on a trip which at home would be called bar hopping. They visited at least a half dozen venues, each with its particular clientele and style of music. Most that they visited catered to the young adult crowd, including, of course, university students. More than once, Manuel was hailed by another student, and introduced his guests to them, although none would be remembered by name the next day. A Reixa, however, featured mainly ‘60s music, and had an older clientele. Manuel grinned as he introduced Bryce and Damon to his parents. He managed an approximation of their names. About eleven o’clock they were back at the Forum, where Manuel danced with both Bryce and Damon. Damon was pleased that his command of Spanish was sufficient that he could carry on a conversation with Manuel in what the latter called Castilian, but the local tongue was close enough to sound familiar, but actually left him confused. As they parted, Manuel promised to come around the next day and show them more of the city.
Bryce hesitated. “I will be going to Mass at the cathedral in the morning,” he said.
“Of course. I will come by to escort you. The misa capitular, that is, the Mass celebrated for the chapter of the cathedral, is at ten o’clock. Is that satisfactory?” Manuel asked.
“More than satisfactory, it’s very good of you,” Bryce replied.
“Not at all. It is more interesting than my parish church anyway,” Manuel responded, and departed from them in front of the Hotel Gastronomico San Miguel with a wave of the hand.
That evening, Bryce and Damon thoroughly enjoyed each other before falling into a restful sleep. They arose to Bryce’s travel alarm, and had a generous breakfast before dressing up for church. It was Sunday, and they did that every Sunday at home anyway. At about twenty before ten, Manuel appeared, also more formally dressed than the night before, and accompanied them back to the Plaza de Obradoiro. What the visitor first saw was the great baroque façade, the work of Fernando de Casas Novoa in the eighteenth century, and which appears on several Spanish coins. It is actually in some sense a false front, as it was erected to protect the original Romanesque front, called the Pórtico da Gloria, which dates from the twelfth century, but which was deteriorating from weather erosion. At the center is a depiction of the Apostle St. James the Greater, flanked by Sts. Athanasius and Theodore. Beyond this is the original façade, with a tympanum over the central door depicting the Pantocrator with the four Evangelists and the instruments of the Passion of the Christ. Advancing, they came to a figure at the base of the central column representing Master Mateo, the twelfth century architect, holding an identifying plaque naming him as Architectus. So much for anonymous medieval craftsmen. For centuries pilgrims touched their foreheads to the figure for wisdom. Although the administrators are attempting to limit this practice, as it contributes to the deterioration of the work, the three entering students managed to perform the ritual. They scurried away as a verger approached.
Although there was much more to see Manuel ushered Bryce and Damon into the nave of cathedral itself where the Mass would shortly begin. Although Bryce could not understand most of the words spoken, or even whether they were Castilian Spanish or Galician, the movements, gestures, and general progress of the Mass were familiar enough that he knew what was being done. Damon caught enough to be able to tell his partner that it was Spanish, i.e., Castilian, and not Galician, which was in use. At communion time Bryce and Manuel presented themselves, and, after being assured that the practice was the same as at home, Damon went up for a blessing.
Following the Mass, Manuel resumed the mantel of tour guide, and showed his guests around the impressive structure. There were statues of great interest, and images galore to drive an iconoclast into a frenzy. The north and south entrances and the cloister were all awe inspiring in their combination of the medieval Romanesque of the original structure and the very elaborate Spanish baroque, sometimes called churrigueresque after the eighteenth century architect José Churriguera (1665-1725). Manuel was obviously proud of his city and its cathedral.
Having completed their tour of the cathedral, Manuel led them for their midday meal to a nice place on the Plaza da Quintana, just east of the cathedral, only a few steps from where Bryce and Damon dined the evening before. There, Bryce insisted on treating Manuel in thanks for his welcome services, both last evening and today. They sat inside this time, as a slight drizzle had begun, not enough to disrupt traffic, but enough to make sitting outside uncomfortable.
Once seated and having ordered, Damon said, “Okay, you guys seem to know all about this place, but I’m totally in the dark. Who’s this Santiago fellow, and why is he so important?”
Bryce gave a dramatic sigh. “That’s what comes of having an infidel as a boyfriend. He knows nothing of Western civilization,” he joked.
“Maybe it’s because I’m African,” Damon responded.
“About as African as I am English,” Bryce said. “You speak English, your politics and career goals are thoroughly American, and I know more African history than you do.”
It was Damon’s turn to sigh. “Are you going to answer my question or not?”
Manuel looked a little uneasy, not quite understanding that this kind of banter was frequent between the partners, and no sign of real conflict at all. Bryce placed his hand on that of Manuel, and said, “It’s okay. That’s just the way we joke with each other.” He looked relieved.
“To answer your question,” Bryce began, “Santiago is St. James the Greater, one of the apostles of Jesus. He is mentioned in the Gospels numerous times as the son of Zebedee and Salome and the brother of St. John. There’s another St. James, called the Lesser, but no one seems to know why one was greater and the other lesser. Some people seem to think that James and John were cousins of Jesus. Anyway, along with Peter and John, he was one of the inner circle. About a dozen years after Jesus’s ascension, St. James was martyred in 44 A.D. under King Herod Agrippa. Now as far as St. James being in Spain, I leave that part of the story to Manuel.”
Manuel smiled, gave a little bow towards Bryce, and took up the narrative. “Our traditions say St. James preached in Spain before returning to Judea, where he was martyred. His remains were then miraculously transported to this region, which was the ancient bishopric of Iria Flavia, and which became the city and archbishopric of Santiago de Compostela. During the persecutions of the third and fourth centuries, the tomb of the apostle was lost, the church housing it being destroyed by the Roman authorities. In an hour of great need, when the last Christian strongholds in Spain were being threatened by the Moors, or Moslems from North Africa, who had overrun almost all Spain, the tomb was rediscovered by a hermit named Pelagius, whose statue we saw in the cathedral a little while ago. He informed the bishop, Theodomir, whose statue we also saw, who in turn informed King Alfonso, who ordered that a chapel be built on this site. By the next generation or so, this was becoming a pilgrimage site. In 844 the Moors were again threatening the very existence of the Christians. At the critical battle of Clavijo, when King Ramiro was about to be annihilated, Santiago appeared on a white horse and led the successful Christian charge, which turned back the Moorish tide. Ever since then, he has been our protector against alien invaders. Then, in 997 the Moslems burned the church during a raid which reached all the way up here. But Santiago did not abandon us, nor we him. The church was rebuilt, and resulted in the magnificent shrine you see before you,” Manuel gestured towards the structure across the plaza.
“Is all this true?” Damon asked.
“Well,” Bryce hesitated, looking towards Manuel, who nodded. “It’s tradition. I would not stake my reputation as an historian on it. There are too many gaps. But the tradition itself is important. What people believe is important. The legend inspired many noble and courageous deeds, and gave the Christian people of the Iberian peninsula hope in a time when things were dire. That’s definitely true.”
“So, are you telling me some miracle stories are true and some not?” Damon wanted to know.
“I’m not saying the stories of Santiago are not true. I’m just saying they are impossible to verify historically. It’s not in the same category as Fatima, with 70,000 witnesses. What is definitely true is that Santiago de Compostela became one of the most popular pilgrimage sites of the Middle Ages,” Bryce replied.
“Wait, before we go any further, how come this St. James dude is called Santiago here in Spain? I think I missed something there,” Damon asked.
Manuel said, “The person you call Saint James in English is called Sanctus Jacobus in Latin, and that evolved into Sant’ Iago, or Santiago in the local language. In some other parts of Spain, he is called San Diego.”
“Okay. I thought so, but I wasn’t sure,” Damon said. “Now, what’s this about a pilgrimage?”
“It has been the practice of devout Christians to visit the places associated with Jesus and his saints for centuries. Definitely attested from the fourth century on,” Bryce said.
“And from the tenth century on, this place has been a center of pilgrimage. During the period of the High Middle Ages, that is, from the eleventh to the thirteenth centuries, only Rome and Jerusalem drew more pilgrims than Santiago. There were hostels, something like inns or hotels today, all along the major routes from far beyond Spain to this place. We drew pilgrims from England, Scandinavia, even Poland and Hungary in those days, and to some extent still do, just not as many. The most common route today enters Spain through the Pass of Roncesvalles in the Pyrenees and goes through Pamplona, Burgos, and León to arrive at Santiago, and it was certainly one of the most popular during the Middle Ages as well. Pilgrims today carry something like a passport called a credencial, which is stamped by the hostels and churches along the way. Once you get to Santiago, you get a compostela, or certificate that says you have completed the pilgrimage,” Manuel informed them.
“I’d love to do that someday. Unfortunately, our schedule does not permit it on this trip,” Bryce said.
“Why not? We’re here,” Damon said.
“To get a compostela you have to have walked at least one hundred kilometers. That’s about sixty of your miles,” Manuel said. “Or, you could bicycle twice that distance.”
“Have you done that?” Bryce asked.
“Oh, yes, many times. The first time I was nine years old, and I walked with my parents,” Manuel replied.
“I’m envious,” Bryce admitted. “This is a special year, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Manuel replied. “When the feast of Santiago falls on a Sunday, there are special blessings, special ceremonies, and special indulgences. This year, 2010, is such a Jubilee year. Even without the pilgrimage, you received special blessings at the Mass this morning.”
“How many pilgrims still make the journey?” Bryce asked.
“It’s hard to tell who is a genuine pilgrim, and who, like Damon here, is merely a tourist. But Santiago had nearly a hundred and fifty thousand visitors last year, and we expect many more this year,” Manuel stated. “In English, this pilgrimage is most often called the Way of St. James. In our local Galician, we call it O Camiño de Santiago, and in Castilian it is called El Camino de Santiago. I’m sure other languages have their names for it as well. One final word. Before you go, you must obtain the scallop of Santiago.”
“What’s that?” Damon asked.
“The scallop shell, you know, the seashell,” Bryce explained. “I’m not sure why, but it has been the symbol of St. James since the Middle Ages.”
“There are many stories, but it does not matter. You cannot leave us without a scallop,” Manuel insisted.
“When we get to France, if you want scallops for dinner, you order coquille Saint Jacques. I do know that,” Bryce commented.
And so it was that Manuel led them to a nearby shop to look into the windows. As it was Sunday, the shops were not open, but Bryce and Damon would not leave the next morning without their shells.
Following their lengthy meal and discussion, Manuel showed his guests around other parts of the city than the night spots he had favored the previous evening. Next to the cathedral is the Hostal dos Reis Cathólicos, or Hostel of the Catholic Kings, established to house pilgrims by King Ferdinand and Queen Isobel in 1486 with some of the booty captured from the conquests, then going on, of the last Moslem strongholds in Spain. On the Plaza dos Obradoiro is the Palacio de Raxoi, an eighteenth century structure which serves as town hall. Manuel also teased his guests by relating the story that part of the Plaza de Quintana, where they dined, was once a cemetery, and if one is there at midnight alone, one can see the spirits of the dead. They spent the remainder of the day in the cathedral museum.
Back in the hotel, Damon complained, “I never know whether to believe you or not when you start in on these stories of yours.”
“Why, what do you mean?” Bryce played innocent.
“Well, you said you believed in the story of Fatima, with the dancing sun, but you kind of hedged on this story of Santiago. Which is it?”
“I believe miracles can and do happen. I believe the people at Fatima in October of 1917 saw the sun dance in the sky. Not that the actual sun left its cosmological place, but that this is what they experienced. I believe that St. James was an apostle, and was martyred under Herod Agrippa. I don’t know whether the relics preserved in the church here are really those of the apostle, and it really doesn’t matter. The pilgrimage, and the visits to the church, strengthen the faith of the people, and help them to persevere in the face of a hostile world, and thus reach the purpose for which we exist, namely eternal salvation. And I believe that God approves of this. Is that clear enough?” Bryce responded.
“I guess. I’ll have to think about it,” Damon conceded. He had not liked it earlier when Manuel associated himself with Bryce as a pilgrim, but dismissed him as a mere tourist.
The next morning, they went out and purchased their scallops. Then, they began to trace the Way of St. James backwards, heading to León, and beyond it their next stop. Burgos.