Sept 26 - to be or not be in Portugal

So ready to be in Spain, I walk across the bridge. Cranky. Lost. Man wants to take my photo. dinner with chorizo and I make it back on time.  Only 5 of us in albergue, oddly, later Michel tells me that I was  talking in my sleep.  And in spite of the proximity of Galicia to Portugal, to a similarity of language (Gallego and Portuguese), and to the lingering influence of the Celts, once I've crossed the bridge over the river I know I've entered Spain.  It's not just the sign saying "Bienvenido a España" or the hour difference in time that you add, or the fact I can speak and be partially understood now, but it feels like Spain.  As an outsider, of long ago Spanish descent, and in spite of all the rallying for separatism and sayings to the contrary, there is a culture and a personality that is quintessentially Spanish and present throughout every region I have crossed, and I both love and am frustrated by aspects of it at the same time.