A Pilgrimage

{pil·grim·age (p l gr -m j). n. 1. A journey to a sacred place or shrine.}

The great news about having a hubby that travels for work is that sometimes I tag along. Today, we’re in Barcelona; he’s at a conference, and I’m on my own. After three days in the city, I’m ready for open space. I consult the concierge and the guidebook and decide: a pilgrimage to Montserrat, to visit the Benedictine monastic community established around 900 AD, where the Catalan religious artifact, La Moreneta, was hidden during the Spanish Civil War and is now proudly displayed.

I wake at 6:30, an ungodly hour considering I’ve barely slept these past two nights. Still, I rise, dress, heavily apply concealer and stumble to the lobby. Out the door, the Ramblas still sleeps. Underground I go, to the L3 and then the P5. Of course, I’m there 30 minutes early for the hourly train, since I don’t know how long it takes to find it and get tickets. As always, the subway systems are so much more efficient than I realize, being a car kind-of person in my daily life. So, I sit, cappuccino in one hand, messenger bag firmly grasped in the other, and watch, bleary eyed. On this Monday morning, commuters come and go, equally bleary eyed, slowly exiting their train, or racing to beat its closing doors. All with messenger bags, many with coffee, we are connected.

The 8:36. That’s me. I board, let down my pickpocket wary guard and pull out my ipod. Across from me sits another ipoder. I wonder what he’s listening to, and try to glimpse his screen… no luck. There’s a huddle of boys (maybe age 18?) with low-riding pants, grey and black hoodies, and sheepish grins. As you’d expect, they talk of girls, but are too shy to approach them. And, of course, there’s a fellow tourist, guidebook in hand. (I like to think I’m not so obvious; after all, my guidebook’s at the hotel). Avoiding the halitosis of this guy and really wishing he’d taken me up on my Dentyne offer, I look out the window. Still underground, stops go by, commuters dwindle. As we ascend, I observe graffiti laden walls, densely built apartments, Burger King, and a football field of cement. There are freeways and 16-wheelers, industry, construction. Pruned trees await spring buds. As we continue, the density makes room for agriculture, olive trees, the Spanish equivalent of the Mc Mansion, a green flowing river and, finally, our stop.

At 9:40 we arrive. Congratulating myself that I made the first train and will set foot atop Montserrat before the tour bus masses, I head for the aerial. Attempt foiled; we’re on Spanish time. The first cable car departs at 10:10 in the winter. I wait some more. I’m relieved (in more ways than one) when the operator arrives and opens the restroom at 10. No sooner than 10:10, the door opens and five of us board the cable car (maximum capacity of 35). I don’t know how this would feel if there were 30 more people sardined in here, but in this case, with our small group (me, one Japanese speaker, three Dutch), it’s breathtaking. When I decided yesterday to make my pilgrimage, I was disappointed in the cloud and rain forecast, given the past three days had been beautiful sun, but now I am content with the quiet, contemplative atmosphere of the surrounding clouds.

At the top, I walk quickly to the basilica, aware that it closes 10:30 to noon for services. I absorb a few moments alone inside the awesome sanctuary before greeting 200 or so French teenagers here on some sort of class excursion. I smirk as I translate bits of their conversations, unsuspected. As the mass nears, I debate: mass at the sacred basilica, perhaps the most famous Catalan pilgrimage site, or my own time?

I exit the massive doors and make my way to the funicular. This time, capacity of 50, I travel alone up the rickety track. Up above the basilica, the monastery, the tourists, I head toward the trail. A small family snaps photos; I hustle past in hopes of space to myself. I’m delighted when they turn back and head down. By now it’s sprinkling, overcast, eight degrees celcius (46 farenheit for us Americans). I’m “prepared” for the 40 minute loop with my water, Think Thin bar, gloves, parka, black tennies, ipod and camera (who am I kidding I’m not an easily spotted tourist – as if the scarf could camouflage my tells). On goes the ipod, and I setout, in search of fresh air, open space. The raindrops grow heavier, but a true Oregonian, my hood remains at my back. I walk, enjoying the music, the solitude, the cloud blanket below. A zumba fave plays, and I resist the urge to break into the familiar moves and potentially tumble down the cliff.

As I come upon a breathtaking rock formation perched above and within the clouds, “Pie Jesu” begins to play. I exhaust my camera as my ipod selects another instrumental fave, and then a third (instrumental comprises about five percent of my playlist so three in a row is uncanny). The clouds part just enough that I can see the basilica down below in the valley. My shutter records this moment, but on the screen the basilica’s hidden, the transparency of the clouds only visible to the naked eye.  So, I stop and really take it in. As if waiting for this moment, the sun peaks through. I close my eyes, lean against the rocks. Suddenly, profoundly, the church bells toll, echoing gloriously across the mountain. I breathe in this moment of layered beauty: nature, music, ceremony.

At the last toll, the sun takes its cue and returns to its comfy blanket in the clouds. I continue along the trail for another hour, no person in sight, nor end to the so-called 40-minute loop. I consider my options. By now the temperature has dropped, the trail’s muddy and slick, and clouds are dense, revealing little light. I’m pulled to keep walking down a path that promises a route down to the monastery in just 90 minutes, but wisdom prevails. I remember no one knows exactly where I am and turn back, feeling a bit dizzy from the adrenaline and dopamine rush of being alone in the dark, wet mountains (and I’m sure the cappuccino with no food didn’t help.) Another solo ride down the funicular, I guzzle my water and snack on sundries.

I return to the basilica. The French students are gone, but many visitors remain, here to see La Moreneta, the Black Virgin. It’s a statue of Mary and Jesus dated to the 12^th century, in which their skin has “tanned” over the years. She holds a sphere in her hand, representing the universe. Religious pilgrims and other visitors may touch the sphere as they walk past, signifying their belief in Jesus. I shuffle through the corridor in silence, amazed by the gold leaf, the centuries old paintings, the sculptures. I spend a moment with La Moreneta and take in the glow of the multi-color prayer candles in the rock hallway outside. I appreciate it all for its beauty, history, and religious and cultural significance, but, I admit, I don’t feel anything. I wonder if the seemingly pious men in front of me in line, who kissed the glass outside the statue, felt something. Maybe the pilgrimage to visit La Moreneta is different for devout Catholics or Catalonians.

I continue with more photos: statues, viewpoints, tombs of saints and the religious righteous. My sim card is bursting, and my eyes are displaying color spots the camera doesn’t see. I grab a yogurt and, of course, another cappuccino from the cafeteria in anticipation of the route home.

I descend the cable car, board the P5, and an hour later the L3. By the time I hit Catalunya station, it’s a slooooow ramble back down the Ramblas. I stop for tapas (a touristy move at 5:30 pm). The food helps stabilize my vision and give me just enough to make it through another five hours. I meet up with my hubby and head out to the symphony at the Palau de Musica Catalanya (an amazingly beautiful place you must visit if ever in Barcelona). He asks about my day. I show some of the hundreds of photos and describe the sites, but I’m critically aware that the photos and recounting are a gross understatement of the experience.

From the minute my journey began, descending the subway stairs at dark, to its peak high above the clouds, the pilgrimage was sacred for me. I was alone but connected… to people, another culture, nature, life. Words cannot describe the feeling of those few moments: the synergy of sun, music, landscape, and those majestic sounding bells. A simple sacrament.