I met Father Vicente here in Santiago de Compostela in 1989, when I was 27.

Patty and I were living in Paris at the time, and our friends Michael and Nancy, classmates of Patty’s at UCLA, told us that they were coming to Spain to get married.

Michael had met Don Vicente (“Don” is the common form of address for a priest in Galicia) during a previous trip to Spain, and asked him to marry them in Santiago de Compostela.

We were expecting Micheline by that time, and had already abandoned our plans to run with the bulls in Pamplona in July.

Robin, with her husband Eliot, was on her way to celebrate her 50th birthday in Paris that same week in July of 1989 (her birthday is July 14th, Bastille Day). But with some juggling we were able to spend time with Robin and made it to Santiago by train.

Nancy’s mother, sister, and brother in law traveled from Bolivia for the ceremony. It was lovely ceremony, in an older chapel of the cathedral called Corticelia, since incorporated into the larger complex.

After the wedding, Don Vicente invited us to his home in the village of San Andrés de Teixido, 150 km east of Santiago in the Rias Gallegas (Galician fjords). His village had a small Romanesque church from the 12th century, a variety of stone homes (cows on the bottom, people on top, for warmth), and a single telephone attached to a pole in the square near the church.

I don’t believe Don Vicente actually remembered me, but he did remember Michael and the wedding. He remembered Nancy when I reminded him that she was a twin. The photos from our old album that Patty sent were helpful.

He asked about Michael and Nancy, and I told him we had lost touch over the years, but that Michael had helped me track him down through the Diocese. I said that both couples had had three daughters, and that two of Michael and Nancy’s were twins.

Don Vicente had been at the Seminary in Mondoñedo for less than a week. He had been living with his sister near Santiago in the year since he had retired in the home he had grown up in. But his sister had a husband and two sons, and there were simply too many people in the house.

There were 7 other priests living at the Seminary, but thy all had assignments outside of town during the day. Vicente was unsure whether he would have an assignment, or whether he would spend his time studying.

He said that when he became a priest, 200 people had matriculated in this facility, but that last year, there were none. Like many Spanish cities, the population was also down, to 1,000 in the case of Mondeñedo.

When I called Vicente after reaching Santiago, he apologized that he had forgotten about my letter and had recently moved. We quickly established that the distance was drivable in a day. Victoria and I picked up our rental car a day early, and she thoughtfully offered to come along with me on my not/exactly/logical errand and help me navigate the highway system, roundabouts, Galician signage, etc.

Over lunch, Don Vicente told me he was 79. I showed him some photos from 1989, in which we all looked incomprehensibly young. I asked him about his health, and he said it was only okay (equivocating gesture). He looked and sounded good to me, but I sensed that there was some sadness about the move.

His English was rusty, and my Spanish only marginally better than when I was 27. As he told me back then, he still enjoys opportunities to practice English.

I kept a written journal in those days, a page of which I read at Micheline’s wedding (“today I learned that I was going to be a father…”). Don Vicente seemed pleased that I remembered his house, his village, and his recipe for tortilla Española.

I brought him some Galician chocolate, since he is now living outside of Galicia for the first time in his life.

Don Vicente led us up the hill to visit the cathedral, but it was closed.

As we said goodbye, I told him that my Camino was now complete.

Victoria took exception to my observation that today represented a kind of “bookending” for me. Not to be fatalistic, but I am statistically much closer to the end of my life today than I was to the beginning in 1989.

I thanked Don Vicente for his kindness all those years ago, and told them that seeing again had made my heart happy.

It was a good day. I will write him a thank-you letter when I get home.