Monday, October 5, 2015 Montserrat

I must stop writing of yesterday’s adventures (dictating actually, I long ago lost the ability to write or type) and eat my breakfast. After breakfast, we head out the door, destination Montserrat. We take the Metro red line from Navas over to Espanya station, without drama. We’ve become sophisticated subway users and diligent ascensor finders.

Montserrat, or serrated mountain, lies an hour northwest of Barcelona by train. After buying tickets, we catch the FGC train for the hour's ride out to the base of the mountain. From there, we catch the rack train taking us up the mountain to the monastery of Montserrat. We shouldn’t take too much credit for finding the correct train from Espanya since the station has posted 5’ x 8’ signs in English pointing the way to the correct train.

Montserrat, a Benedictine abbey up on a serrated mountain, holds the soul of the Catalan people. Long ago some shepherd children (Catholic mythology always features shepherds or shepherd children) saw lights and heard songs emanating from a cave. Drawn to explore the cave, the children found a wooden statue of Mary buried there. Years in the soil had turned her black. The Church gave the black virgin (La Moreneta) refuge in the abbey.

Exiting the rack train at the busy monastery, we learn that we’ve arrived just in time to hear the fabled boys’ choir sing. We enter the back of the sanctuary, not expecting to see anything over the throng of tourists before us. One of the people in charge decides that as a wheelchair-bound tourist, I need to go to the very front of the church. He moves all the other tourists to the side, allowing Bear, Bird and I to proceed. Our path disappears as soon as we pass, like the ocean filling a temporary void. In the very front of all the people, I have an unobstructed view of the altar, the priests and the choir.

Shortly the boys file out. The boys walk two by two, matched in height. Finding their places, they begin to sing in voices truly angelic. After their song, the priest speaks briefly in Catalan, English and Spanish. Very inclusively, he asks for world peace and invites everyone to pray the Lord’s Prayer together, each in their own tongue. He begins but no one in the audience says anything. I start, “Our Father, who art in heaven,” but Keith shushes me saying that the priest intended silent prayer. I look at the sea of Asian faces surrounding us and wonder how many know the prayer. After all, millions of Asians are Christians.

I notice again and again that the Catholics show special kindness to cripples and go out of their way to help me each and every time. Do they consider me touched by God? I remain awed and grateful. Alternatively, the Roma consider me cursed and take great pains to avoid me, not necessarily a bad thing.

We roll as close as we can to La Moreneta. Housed behind glass up a steep flight of stairs, she’s completely inaccessible to me. I offer my prayers from the bottom of the steps. The church really moves me. If Catholicism were focused solely the veneration of Mary, the best Christianity offers, I could be Catholic. I extend my hand to the Virgin and open my heart.

Leaving her sanctuary, we walk down a Mary way. I light a candle and say a prayer for Irma, my Spanish teacher who enjoys hanging out with nuns, and a blessing for the world. Even now, as I write a month later, I remember the peace that flooded my senses from the holiness of La Moreneta.

Hungry, we begin our restaurant search. We first encounter a massive cafeteria or tourist feeding trough, which does blessedly have an accessible bathroom. A cafeteria employee kindly unlocks the bathroom door for us. I can proudly say that we don’t cave in and eat crap. We exit the trough and continue our search for decent food.

Walking along the road, we find a Hotel Abat Cisneros. The hotel has a most excellent restaurant with an amazing view of the mountain and valley. We slowly enjoy our late lunch. Sated, we leave and walk out all along the cliff as far as we can. We drink in the stunning view as we watch birds fly about the cliff enjoying the uplifting thermals. Keith gives several birds pet names and cheers them on.

We return to the rack train to head down the mountain. Confronted with two trains and little English, we board the train that has people in it. Earlier than scheduled, the train leaves. Oh-oh, wrong train! This one only goes to the parking lot. Booted off, we wait for the correct train to take us about half a kilometer further down the mountain.

Upon reaching the base of the mountain we catch the correct (and only) train back to Barcelona. No one checks out tickets, which we dutifully keep. Aha! Back in Barcelona, at Espanya you can’t exit into the Metro without your tickets. Not wanting to spend the rest of our lives gazing longingly into Espanya, we surrender our prized tickets to the turnstile, which opens. A few acsensores later, we board the red line for Navas and home.