I do not remember leaving Mansilla in the morning. I do not remember the walk into Leon in any
substantial detail, other than it feeling easy and being amused by many of the
faces of the ‘new’ crowd that were swiftly growing familiar as we tried to
navigate the increasingly confusing twists and turns of the Camino. I don’t imagine ancient pilgrims had to deal
with new road construction, overpasses, interstates, building supply parking
lots, and tunnels, but it didn’t bother me as I could see the center of Leon
from what felt like miles away.
And there, in the center, the cathedral beckoned.
For once, I had read my guidebook ahead of time and worked up a healthy
excitement for the cathedral, and I was coming into Leon during the San Froilan
festival – this time enthusiastic and willing to engage in the party (as
opposed to the wine festival I avoided in Logrono).
I did stop at the very first suburb for coffee and orange juice, hoping
to collect some pilgrims to my outside table as they walked across a bridge
from the adjacent park… only to watch them walk by one by one as the café owner,
an old friendly woman, kindly fussed over me.
Apparently literally just
around a corner was a highly recommended café where they were all headed – as I
found out to my embarrassment a few minutes later.
After the walk into Leon proper took me past all the trappings of a
major metropolis, the Camino wound under an ancient stone wall, the Puerta
Mondeda, and swapped neon and roadways for stone streets and the beautiful
images of ‘old Europe’. The streets were
more crowded as people were obviously in preparation for the festival; the low
buildings and tight streets blocked out much of the sun. Following the Camino, I found my way to the
convent-run albergue Benedictinas. It was the first time since Granon I was
going to stay in a strictly parish hostel, and the feeling was immediately
different, largely because of the size.
Granon held maybe 50 pilgrims, Leon’s convent nearly 150 in two male and
female dorms. The dorms framed one side
of a huge square facing the convent/school opposite.
Despite the size, it was friendly and comfortable and I was quickly set
up and headed out to explore the city.
Inevitably, I bee-lined straight for the cathedral square. Along the way I noted delicious-smelling
restaurants and interesting shops, a gear store, places worth exploring
later. I was lost in the minutiae of the
city and its’ busy residents, distracted by the huge tent market being set up
in the Plaza San Marcelo, when I came out into the Plaza Regia in front of Leon
Cathedral.
I had done Burgos Cathedral a disservice when I was there: it seemed
impressive but grey and cold, and I was heavily distracted by my physical
discomfort. Leon Cathedral was unhindered,
and the stature and beauty of the building made me catch my breath. As I approached the entrance, I almost felt
shy or reserved, nearly reluctant to go inside.
But I did, and paid for the tour ticket, and wandered around for nearly
an hour, taking time to pray a rosary for my family and my gratitude in one of
the side chapels.
I was ridiculously humbled by the fact of the cathedral’s existence –
buildings and materials don’t often impress or inspire awe for me, but
wandering around the side chapels housing lovingly crafted statues and
altarpieces, seeing the awe in other’s faces as their eyes were drawn upward
into the massive stained glass windows, and thinking about how this cathedral
was created as a physical representation of the faith of countless Christians
in the past, I felt that humble awe begin to stir in my chest.
The cathedral is noted for many things – the sheer amount of stained
glass that turns the interior into something bright, beautiful, and graceful;
the housing of San Froilan’s relic; the representations of art from the middle
ages through the present – but, surprisingly, it was also intimate. Later, when I came back for the feast day
mass (with the Bishop and the presentation of the relic, no less), I expected
to see the ritual in high form. I did
not expect it to seem so individualized and intimate, with 7 priests attending
and a hundred or so congregants.
Throughout the liturgy my eyes were drawn upward over the altar and into
the windows, and even here, in this large city and this massive cathedral, I
felt the same stirrings of the holy spirit as in the masses I’d attended
throughout the Meseta.
Afterward, Kim from Texas and I went in search of drinks and found a
table of pilgrims. Lotus was talking to
Liz and Chris at a busy table in a crossways, surrounded by the increasing
fervor of the festivities. They looked
awkward as we sat down, and I assumed it was because I hadn’t yet showered and
they all looked freshly scrubbed and ‘together’ (this was a trend with Liz and
Chris that would continue all the way to Santiago de Compostela. Fancy Brits, damn them).
When the waiter came by and I realized the bar/café was, in fact, just a
bar, I panicked and ordered what amounted to a cold Irish coffee. Kim got tea; Lotus stalled until the waiter
actually walked away, and then she spirited herself away into the throng… at
which point Chris explained that the waiter was pissed and the situation
strange because Lotus had plopped down at their table with a glass of wine from
somewhere else, and then refused to
order anything. They, and I, were
mortified. Canadians, right? Can’t take them anywhere…
But in seriousness, sitting in the early evening hustle of a city
gathering to celebrate itself, talking to a new pair of pilgrims whose dry
sarcasm was refreshing and like good friends at home, I remembered why I love
cities that actually have a soul – Athens, Asheville, Chattanooga: places where
it feels as if people actually live there, that the streets and buildings are
their homes and they are happy to be there in the first place. It actually spurred real homesickness for the
North Shore and My Favorite Coffee Shop Of All Time in Chattanooga, for West
Asheville and the crowds at the bakery, for downtown Athens on fall
afternoons.
Coming back to the convent, I wandered downstairs to the public
computers to, literally, run into Allegra in the hallway. She stopped me like a running back – hand square
on my shoulder – and started talking.
Standing squarely in the middle of the hallway, oblivious to people
walking past us, in quick and excited chatter, I again had that feeling of
imminent trouble.
I’ll be blatantly honest at this point, because it’s important: in
conversation with this beautiful woman, with the close postures and body
language, with the smiles and eye contact, I had that moment of realization
that, if I dropped the hint or just suggested it, we would spend the night in a
hotel somewhere in the city. I’m not
trying to sound arrogant or assume too much, but I’ve been in that situation
before, and there are times when you just know.
I’ll call it, with all seriousness, a prayer answered that I didn’t make
that choice. I’ve often, often made the
wrong choice in those situations – wrong in the sense that I know what I want is love in a C.S. Lewis
sort of purity, and what I have often chosen is something less than that. Moderation with women is something relatively
new to me, and it’s something I’ve prayed to receive particularly since the end
of my last long term relationship. This
time around, it seems to be working.
So when Allegra tells me that she’s leaving the Camino soon to join
other people in Ibiza, I feel sad and relieved that, although I won’t get to
find out more about her or where that attraction might lead, at least I can
offer a more sincere and less distracted friendship for the rest of the
evening, as we go with other pilgrims to the nuns’ Compline service in the
church next door.
And this, too, is a grace and a blessing. I don’t remember this beautiful, vibrant
woman as a ghost in the shadows with whom I shared a fleeting intimacy, or as a
Camino hook-up, but as a smiling, singing person who stood next to me during
two masses and hugged me tight and long when we said goodbye the next morning.
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