Alfajarín

"It is true that our life is a pilgrimage, a trip, a journey, and it depends on us to make it more of a vital one, or a more spiritual one where we decide to uniquely have fun for the sake of the present moment, or to invest in meaningful memories, believing they count toward our growth as spiritual                                                               creatures."  
                                                                   - Carlos Miguel-Pueyo

I sometimes battle anxiety.. Crowds and loud noises can turn me into a sweaty mess and at times, cause me to step back from living. I despise this weakness. 

One clear warm summer evening, I stood outside of a beautiful open air theater in the heart of Bella Roma. Though my friend was jumping through hoops to get us into a sold out show, I started to feel the rising unexpected tide of a panic attack, the quickening breath, the clamminess, the rapid heart beat, the loss of focus, the oversensitivity to sound. I fought silently, unwilling to give voice to symptoms that I rationalized were just in my head. “We can listen from outside,” I said, attempting yet again to step back from living. But as a friend of ours worked for the theater, we were ushered in and were able to tuck ourselves into a quiet corner. As I sat measuring my breaths, the sun sank below the horizon, bathing the sky in a deep bluish purple, while traces of orange disappeared behind winking stars. A soft breeze ruffled the hair of the beautiful Italians surrounding us as seagulls flew silently above. The air smelled of earth and sea and wine flavored with faint expensive perfume. A thunderous applause rolled through the audience as Pino Daniele stepped out on stage, picked up his guitar and began to sing.  His voice drifted gently to every corner of the hypnotized theater and my heart slowed; my fears forgotten in my instant love for this darling of Napoli. 

Mere months later, on a cold Chicago January day, news that Italy’s dear guitar playing tenor had passed on, reached me across the ocean. Pino Daniele had played his last earthbound note, but not before I had a chance to hear him and add his voice to the influences that make up my own. He had unknowingly and momentarily given me a sense of calm.  Grazie. 

******

In the year leading up to the choir pilgrimage to Spain, I vacillated daily. Every Monday night after our Tower Chorale rehearsals, Patrick and Carlos would begin their appeals... “Come on Jen!! We’ll have so much fun!!” or “There is a solo for you!” I struggled. “Should I go? Will every daily performance be a battle against panic? Will I exhaust myself in a constant clash with my own mind?” Fear wanted me to stay home, but one Sunday, Carlos and I stood around my piano, trading Spanish lessons for voice lessons. While his voice worked lovingly through Schubert’s “Ave Maria,” I realized that I wanted to see his hometown, I wanted hear my friend sing as a returned prodigal son (albeit successful..)  I wanted to drink wine with his parents. I wanted late nights with friends and harmonies in medieval churches.  I was going to Spain. After all, I would be heading off to the land of Don Quijote, and what did he do? He tossed fears aside as useless training wheels, raised his sword bravely (though foolishly) and raced headlong to wage war against his own giant windmills.  

Photo stolen from the internet...

On the morning of our bus ride into Zaragoza, Murnie and I peered toward the back of the bus at Carlos, seeing tension lining his face and body. “He looks a little rough.”  Murnie snickered and scrunched up her face, “I’d be nervous too if I were bringing THIS group to my hometown.”  As the afternoon siesta waned, our choir members trickled down to the hotel lobby, dressed in concert best, excitedly clutching music and talking animatedly. We boarded a bus and rode the 15 minutes southeast to Alfajarín, anticipating the moment when we would see the home of our darling Carlos.  

Alfajarín, built in the shadow of the hilltop Castillo, served as the lookout over the Ebro River, protecting the eastern front of the kingdom of Zaragoza. With the Pyrenees and France to the north, the Ebro River to the south, Barcelona and the Mediterranean to the the East and countless wheat fields and olive trees in between, present day Alfajarín is a quiet hamlet of nearly 2,000 inhabitants, all of whom seemed to pack the cheery interior of Iglesia Parroquial de San Miguel Arcángel for Carlos’ return.  

We stepped off our plush tour bus and looked wide eyed at the tiny town around us. A large stork, freshly returned from her annual winter pilgrimage (migration) to Mecca, curiously watched us from her perch in her gargantuan nest atop a village building. We walked slowly through the tiny town courtyard and into the church for our early evening rehearsal. As we organized our music and rehearsed our way through any last minute glitches, our eyes took in the lovely amiable yellow walls with their hard earned cracks and pale cream moulding. We faced well loved scarred wooded pews and to our left hand side stood a nearly life size statue of Jesus on a donkey.  (and any church that includes a donkey is just fine by me!) Within Patrick’s reach sat a lovely shiny black Yamaha grand piano that Mary Ann had generously and thoughtfully sponsored in honor of her husband, before leaving us to watch the concert with him from above. In the altar behind us, Saint George stood in his typical historically questionable pose, sword raised, his boot on a vanquished dragon and nearby, our cherished Saint Gregory looked proudly on. 

As we finished our rehearsal, the surprisingly young mayor of Alfajarín and his gorgeous wife led us to the town hall where conversations in English, Spanish, and a version of Spanish so shamefully bad that it needed it’s own name, competed with the sound of blissful chewing. A delicious spread was laid out, consisting of jamon, tortilla (potato omelette...a.k.a God’s brunch of choice..), varying types of olives, manchego cheese, bread, chips and a simple tomato spread that based on consumption rates, I am positive contained traces of addictive narcotics.  Upon asking for the recipe, I was stunned to learn that it was simply tomatoes, garlic, olive oil and salt. Ah, such delicious simplicity! Little candies and chocolates were sprinkled thoughtfully between the other main dishes. One such candy tasted exactly as I imagine Cap’n Crunch cereal would, had someone thought to dip it in chocolate. (I slipped a couple of these in my pocket..then forgot...it was a mess.) 

After stuffing ourselves silly, we waddled back to the church, our anticipation burning off any sort of residual food coma. We lined up and filed onto the altar steps, facing an entire village of beaming faces. We began our program with ‘Ave Maria’ by Spain’s own Victoria, after which our men led us happily and briskly though ‘Te, Ioseph.’  We followed that with our ever so American rendition of 'Down to the Water to Pray.’ Keri  and her French horn accompanied us with seemingly endless breath through the eloquent and apt lines of ‘The Servant Song.’
“We are pilgrims on a Journey.  We are travelers on the road.
  We are here to help each other walk the mile and bear the load.”

Next, we sang the incredibly tight and rich a cappella harmonies of the moving Stephen Paulus ‘Pilgrim’s Hymn’ while the eyes of the audience followed along in reading the Spanish translations in the program. Our choir member, David Lux then picked up a borrowed Washburn electro-acoustic guitar and started to play the familiar, well-loved strains of ‘Pescador de Hombres.’  Our voices happily worked through the Spanish lyrics, our energy fueled by the smiles and the unconscious swaying and tapping feet of the merry crowd before us. 

After the choir finished singing ‘Lord, How Lovely is your Dwelling Place,’ and ‘Hymn of Wisdom,’ Carlos stepped nervously forward with clutched hands and rigid posture. As the soothing 16th note triplets of Schubert’s ‘Ave Maria’ rose from the piano, Carlos took deep breaths and began his solo, his hymn to Mary. After months of hard work and practice, Carlos sang his first solo in front of nearly everyone he knew, surprising his parents and warming hearts. He bowed to enthusiastic applause while many tears were subtly wiped away.

We continued our homage to Mary by singing Francisco Santiago’s powerful setting of ‘Ave Maria,’ lovingly arranged by our maestro, Patrick, for choir, piano and horn. We began our remembrance set, our hearts heavy with thoughts of Mary Ann, but as we sang through the lush harmonies of ‘In Remembrance,’ and ‘Do This in Remembrance of Me,’ we felt her voice joining with ours, easing our sadness into love.  We sang in Icelandic through the straight tone openness of ‘Heyr, Himna Smiður.’

Throughout our concert, tears had been shed, smiles shared, children had sat cross-legged on the floor in the aisles, hands had been held, and fears had been overcome. As speeches of gratitude were made and we presented our hosts with an icon of Saint George, painted by Saint Gregory’s own resident iconographer, Joe Malham, we realized that the residents of Alfajarín had given our group of 60 unknown Americans, the priceless unquestionable gift of welcome and warmth and a beautiful taste of Spain.    

After our cheeks had been thoroughly kissed, after our exchanged hugs and last minute goodbye waves, the Saint Gregory Choir left the glow of Alfajarín’s church and headed off into the night, towards yet another gluttonous meal... 

The Mayor gifted us with this little castle of Alfajarín!

El Hombre Famoso!!