Painted Streets

We were a lazy bunch, lingering in our plush beds past set alarms. A cold damp rain fell through the weak morning light, taking me back to another such chilly day years before, in a beautiful Parador to the north in the tiny village of Hondarribia. That particular morning had been full of mussed covers and pastries in bed and wrinkled newspapers in three languages, the rain outside cocooning our warm world inside. But fast forwarding a few years to present time, such languid luxuries were not to be had, as Zaragoza beckoned and a morning mass wasn’t going to sing itself. We wearily brushed our teeth, tamed our hair, packed our bags, hastily sucked down coffee, and reluctantly settled in on our bus, glancing backwards through the rain splattered bus windows as our beautiful Brigadoon parador disappeared in the distance. 

Knowing nothing of the city except for the silliness I felt at pronouncing it’s name with the Spanish lisp, (Thhah rrrah GOH THHah..) I was  surprised at the prettiness of the outline of multiple ornate churches lining the river, signaling our entrance to Zaragoza.  Located halfway between Madrid and Barcelona and lining the banks of the Ebro River, Zaragoza traces her origins back to the time of Christ, when she existed as a Roman military camp. The two millennia since then have only added to her beauty with stunning  architecture influenced equally by the Moors, Jews and Christians. As we filed off of our bus and scrambled through the main square to our mass, our eyes happily flickered from one lavish bell tower to the next.

Even my dear Saint James, as full of perseverance and eagerness as he was, had low points, and it is said that Zaragoza was the place of one such moment. As Jim sat dejectedly, his head falling forward in his hands, his heart sick and his will discouraged by the endless task of bringing Christianity to Spain, Mary appeared before him, reassuring him of his eventual success. However, before leaving his side, she asked that a church be consecrated in her name, marking the spot of her appearance.  And so, The Saint Gregory the Great Parish Choir raced to line up inside the Basilica de Nuestra Señora del Pilar, singing in the very place where Saint James and Mother Mary had their much needed pep talk.  

Photo credit Gilbert Godon

Photo credit Gilbert Godon

In it’s most recent form as the second largest church in Spain, the Basilica de Nuestra Señora del Pilar was constructed in 1681 and boasts 11 colorful tiled domes. As we sat through the mass, tucked away in the elaborately carved wooden chairs of the choir, cameras flashed and a TV reporter quietly interviewed our Spanish speaking members. While the priest performed the familiar steps of the preparation, our choir stood and commenced singing painfully slow, long, blue- faced lines of music. Despite our director’s wildly waving arms, an unfamiliar though lovely organist slowed our tempo to that of a listless, gasping, dirge. Even so, the mass ended with many happy congregants approaching us with hearty handshakes and thanks. 

Photo credit Gilbert Godon

One should never hand 

one’s camera off to a five year old if one will be upset by the fact that the five year old takes better pictures than her.  After finishing our mass at the Basilica de Nuestra Señora del Pilar, we wandered across the town square to La Seo, to strain our neck muscles further. With Carlos as our freakishly well informed tour guide, we took in the beauty of the 14th century Unesco world heritage site, our shoes and voices echoing throughout. As Patrick gleefully sat down at the 13th century organ, filling La Seo with sound, I sat with little Gilbert, quietly talking though the buttons of my camera. With only a trace of adult fear, I placed the camera strap around his neck and sent him on his way. I watched curious at what his young eyes would see and I chuckled at his fledgling efforts to remain still to avoid blur while taking a photo. 

At the completion of our tour, some choir members headed for scattered lunches, while others wandered towards our hotel in search of a much needed rest.

I spent my afternoon, pastry in hand (really... is there any other way to be?) meandering through the quiet corners of the city, dipping into perfume scented stores full of soft cotton and taking photos of unexpected urban art and shiny rain painted streets.