Seeking becomes a language among people who
have determined that their common purpose is
to uncover new words. One day, the color of
light announced to us that a pilgrimage had
to follow. In the right light, in a foreign
country, it becomes possible to understand,
sublimely, confidently, that a person can simply
walk out of all known patterns, penetrate the
veil of the night, and navigate a landscape
about which one knows virtually nothing. All
of this, of course, requires a team of willing
cohorts, relatively safe environs, and a large
amount of good fortune.
It was in this manner we decided to hike to
Montserrat. It would be a brief, boundless,
sober experience. We carried with us three or
four antique maps of varying diameter, none
drawn to scale, and no compass. We carried certain
provisions, for nutrition and for comforts
sake. We had the moon at our backs. We had been
given a very vague idea that pilgrims who had
gone before us to see the the Serrated Mountain,
in the true old tradition of pilgrimage, had
also left marked trails for us to follow. This
idea felt propitious, but not one of us ever
sought concrete clarification on the matter.
We weren't even sure what to look for or where
to begin.
Though each of us knew a number of people
who had tried to make the journey, relatively
few barceloneses had actually ventured
out as we were about to do. None of us
was certain exactly what tradition we
were engaging, perpetuating, but we felt
sure, each of us, that our pilgrimage
had been ordained by some necessity. There
was no one we could consult on these matters;
we had a private purpose, and no one had
seen the markings anyway.
All of this, the awareness of the moon,
the provisions, the need for a sense of
necessity, I think originated in doubt.
We had our doubts about the advisability
of hiking through the night, in a foreign
country, expecially when the natives had
warned us of wild boar and possibly wolves.
We had doubts about our very stamina...
already we had heard tales of adventurous
spirits cutting out midway, turning for
home, vanquished, warring secretly amongst
themselves. One acquaintance told us he
had started out four separate times, and
each time the party failed and turned
back. Beyond this, I think we had an interest
in doubt itself, exploring doubt and returning
with something new and more whole and
cleaner than the source of so many suspicions
about possibility.
The whole thing had been Miles
idea. In fact, we were at the xampanyería
when he proposed it. I myself thought
it to be one of the countless heady suggestions
expatriates are wont to throw out into
a common light, to see if they melt away
or not... naturally, it seemed like one
of those that would melt away. Soon we
had more than a handful of eager souls,
signing on (probably in the melt-away
mode of reasoning), and we had set a date,
even a place, as point of departure. But
nothing was certain.
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Plaça
Catalunya, Barcelona |
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The afternoon before the eight of us
were to leave, we had no idea of what
to do or how to begin. We knew only that
somewhere in the Catalán interior,
there was a mountain called Montserrat,
a beautiful and famous place where the
human spirit was supposed to receive an
infusion of stability, and that it was
supposed to be possible to walk there
in less than one day. Consequently, it
was doubt that regimented our planning.
We had nothing but ideas.
I went looking for anything resembling
a walking guide, an atlas of the region,
a map, plain and simple. No store anywhere
to be found by me, on such short notice,
contained such tools. Gloria gave me a
couple of old maps she had, which hadnt
really resembled the precise layout of
the region for half a century. I promised
myself I would not damage them with overuse.
The group was to assemble at the Plaça
Catalunya, Ramblas entrance to the regional
rail lines. Ten, pm. It was still uncertain
who would come. When I arrived, I found
Mary, Kelly, and Renault. Renault was
looking sharp around the edges, having
sworn off alcohol for the afternoon and
evening of our departure. We were all
clean, well-fed, and tired. Three plus
one. Miles was next, then Christine and
Cat.
Farola had decided that nothing would
make this long hard night worth her while.
She had said it this way to Miles, and
he had taken it as a gesture of liberation.
She didnt want to be the one who
complained or suffered all the way to
Montserrat. We envied her resolve, questioned
our own, boarded a train out of the city.
So our troop was seven (three men, four
women).
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Las
Ramblas by Night
Photo: K. Clous |
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There was a pungent silence among us.
We had no clear leader, and we had already
lost one of the volunteers. What next?
was running over each of our foreheads
like a rocky stream unaware of its destination.
We had quaint, convenient thoughts: Barcelona
is our home; we should not abandon her;
there will be disappointment... the night
is the right place to take this chance;
we will fail under cover of darkness,
and succeed in the light, when the world
is awake... there is something heroic
about this plunge into the unknown; we
are pioneers; perhaps this will give us
a better understanding of our homeland,
our history as a people and a nation.
Renault thought about bears and comforted
himself to know that no such peril would
befall our team. All of this to pass the
rhythmic quiet of a train ride, to forget
about time, to ignore how far behind we
had already fallen.
By the time we came upon a little bar,
in the first town of the cordillera,
and stupidly asked a table of young revelers
for directions that would determine our
entire experience, it was a quarter after
eleven. It was becoming clear that we
had a certain expertise for dallying about
and not beginning, and I wondered if any
of us would decline an offer to turn back
and forget it, maybe share a pitcher of
sangría and celebrate our practical
wisdom and our cowardice.
Cat decided we should ask the one female
at the table to elaborate on the vague
instructions her friends had offered us.
She confessed that they had lied, that
they were drunk and she was embarassed
and its not every day someone asks
for directions to walk through the night
to a holy place. She told us to look for
a hill up the road, and an intersection,
and paint on trees. But watch for the
wild boar. They come out at night, and
they have no sense of civility whatsoever.
It seemed an honest attempt. We did as
she had instructed.
Half an hour brought us to the hill,
and there was, interestingly enough, an
intersection, and behind some tall grass,
paint on a tree. There were signs for
more than one marked trail, and we chose
the yellow and white. There were two arrows;
we went left, up the hill. The hill was
not very spectacular, and at the top there
was a small, seemingly abandoned old stone
church. We had already lost the trail,
and we could not see far enough to locate
Montserrat on the western horizon, due
to light pollution from the towns below.
The moon had been coming out of the sea,
as we left, so its trajectory would take
it from east to west during the night.
We located the moon, which seemed to be
climbing straight up the spine of our
night sky, and we were pleased to think
that we knew at least which direction
held our hope. Again, we lingered, we
explored the churchyard, as if it would
contain some clue, perhaps a magic portal
that would transfer us directly to the
craggy slopes of Montserrat. We were,
in effect, searching for a miracle, and
I still think its safe to say that
doubt was among us, and we were all hoping
someone would call off the hike.
But we had no leader, and
no one seemed prepared to step forward,
only to use that privelege to sabotage the
expedition. It would have seemed an abuse,
and presumptuous. So we milled about the
churchyard, looking for proof that our attempt
had already ended, that there was no possibility
of success, and it would be madness to continue.
It seemed darker in our immediate surroundings
than anywhere else on the hill or in the
surrounding civic pools of brick and electricity.
I found myself reflecting on the nature
of Gods ability to know. Is infinity
dark, full of shadows, a shadow in itself?
Is it true that we will meet God in a place
that feels like nowhere, but is everywhere,
that we will merge with the Divine, and
see clearly forever?
We hiked. We felt unknowing, and we joked
about what must be escaping us. Then,
suddenly, as we struggled to clear weeds
from what we hoped was a trail, as we
shone our flashlights on every tree in
the vecinity, and we coiled and recoiled
to prepare ourselves for the inevitable
encounter with the famed wild boar of
the cordillera, Mary spoke:
Maybe we followed the trail backward.
Maybe it begins at the church.
But why would there be an arrow
pointing backward?
Maybe for people who are returning.
It only said the trail went in that direction.
There was another direction, and Montserrat
could be at the other end of the other
direction.
Okay.
We descended the hill, left God to his
weeding, and finally we began. She had
been exactly right. Maybe the church was
the starting point, maybe not, but it
was backward, toward the beginning instead
of toward the goal. We set out toward
the goal, and every ten meters, there
was another radiant yellow and white marking
on another tree, and we gave thanks, and
we laughed, and we gave in to adventure,
and we committed ourselves to sixty kilometers
without fear. It was almost one in the
morning...
XAMPANYERÍA:
A Spanish Memoir |
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© 2000
Joseph Robertson
Photos
© 2001,02 Joseph Robertson
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