Some of us, who shall remain nameless, make bad choices. (Carlos, Patrick, Murnie, Susan and myself..) Some of us had decided that after a morning spent singing in two of Zaragoza’s most stunning churches, after spending an afternoon wandering the beautiful city, after getting dressed up and actually applying mascara, after rehearsing, eating, singing a concert, and eating again... some of us STILL decided that we needed to go out to celebrate. Some of us forgot that in Spain, the wine is way too delicious for our own good. Some of us dragged our clumsy, inebriated carcasses to bed at an unholy hour. And, if some of us happened to speak nonsense in our sleep or snore forcibly that night.. well, who’s to say?
Dawn came viciously early. My eyeballs pulsed from the inside and my mouth was full of cotton as I sloppily packed my things. I raced downstairs towards the continental breakfast and life-saving coffee, vowing to consume at least 32 ounces before our bus showed up. Upon reaching the lobby, I ran into Susan. She looked perfect, not a trace of strain in her eyes, her hair and clothing neat, her ever present congenial smile in place.
I. Hated. Her.
How could the universe smite me so?? I railed at the heavens, I bemoaned the injustice in the world, I cried out for mercy, and then I sat down with my trough of coffee and found my way back to being human. Moments later, we boarded our bus and said goodbye to a beautiful Zaragoza, bathed in the soft caressing glow of an early morning sun.
There really are cures to hangovers though; eggs and hash browns, the aforementioned industrial strength coffee, horse sized tylenol, dark rooms, muzzled children... But what I am sure is NOT a cure... is riding three hours on an oversized bus up the side of a mountain, switch-back after acid reflux inducing switch-back, while warming up and rehearsing for a performance that we were already running late for. However, despite my compromised condition, I still felt a strong sense of anticipation as our bus climbed closer to the clouds.
In 880 A.D. a group of shepherd children witnessed a bright light coming down from the heavens as angelic music filled the air. The children ran excitedly home to tell their parents, and unlike the parents of today, who would immediately take their hallucinating children to the psychologist, the 9th century parents actually believed their children. For the proceeding month, the miracle continued and upon following the light, the villagers discovered a grotto containing La Moreneta, or the Black Madonna. Later, a bishop had thought to move the black Madonna, which was rumored to have been carved by Saint Luke, to another site, but Mary had other ideas. The statue became so heavy that she could not be moved, and so within a century, four chapels had been built on the top of the mountain, surrounding her. By the 11th century, the monastery had been built and due to large numbers of pilgrims showing up, the grand Basilica was consecrated in 1592.
Montserrat, or 'serrated mountain,' located about 25 miles northwest and 4000 ft up from Barcelona, is the birthplace of much lore and many miracles. Not only home to the black Madonna, and a place of inspiration for Saint Ignatius, Montserrat is also rumored to be the home of the Holy Grail, which causes one to begin badly quoting Indiana Jones, or better yet, Monty Python. 'I fart in your general direction. Your mother was a hamster and your father smelled of elderberries!'
One should consider though, that the Holy Grail is also said to be in Leon Spain, Genoa Italy, Rosslyn Chapel Scotland, Glastonbury England, a hole in the ground in Nova Scotia, Fort Knox Kentucky and my favorite, Accokeek Maryland. We may never know if we were within a few breaths of the very cup of Christ.
As I mentioned before, we were running late and when that is the case, there is only one guarantee…stairs. Our bus hastily dropped us a couple blocks down as vehicles aren't generally allowed in the Montserrat complex. Many of us raced to the public restrooms (OUR Holy Grail!) as others began the stunning yet tiring climb to the the basilica. While rushing up stairs, our choir members were reminded of our mortality through the complaints of our over taxed knees, raging motion sickness and racing beta blocker laced hearts. We arrived in the basilica, sweaty and harried, but as the voices of Montserrat's Escolonia (boys choir) greeted us, our discomforts melted away. Tracing it's lineage back to the early 1300s, the Escolonia keeps a demanding schedule, singing multiple times a day, six days a week. World renowned, the angelic voices of these boys are surely a convincing echo of the miracle voices that our young shepherds had heard 1100 years before.
We watched the boys file off to head back to their classes as we prepared to line up on the altar steps. We sang through our selections as our eyes took in the heavy gilding and ostentatious decor of the 16th century basilica.
Still battling exploding eyeballs and motion sickness, I stepped up to sing the solo in ‘I’m Gonna Sing till the Spirit Moves in my Heart,’ a solo that is meant to come from the very core of one’s being. However, I suspect that my churning woozy core had turned my skin to a shiny pea green shade and my palms clammy. I am not sure what sort of sounds came out of my mouth but I could see that once Patrick sang his part and the choir joined in, the parents, children, teachers, students and pilgrims and tourists who bustled around the stunning church had turned our way, stymied and delighted to hear such different American music in their midst.
After our mini performance, we stopped to chat with some of the people in the audience, thrilled to discover that one couple had wandered over from Minnesota, connecting well with our director of Fargo origins. Another couple, a Polish wife and Argentinian husband asked where we would be singing next. They hugged us happily and promised to see us the very next day in Barcelona.
Upon gathering in the courtyard outside of the basilica, our tour guide/warden Cristina told us that we had two hours before meeting the train down the mountain. And with little prompting, our choir members quickly scattered like the seeds of a dandelion.
I wandered, camera in hand, past the lovely little food stalls full of tiny jars of honey, cheese and baked goods. Rather than sit down to a lunch in a very meat smelling cafeteria with the others, (remember the queasy stomach..) I opted to buy a small bag of nuts and dried fruit. I then proceeded to feed myself and the surrounding birds while snapping photos of the spectacular views and beautiful monastery, the fresh air calming my shaky stomach.
Slowly we all trickled back to the tiny train station, excited to board our train, eager to descend from the mountain into the beauty and vitality of a saucy Barcelona.
Photo Credit to Ellen Peirce who caught me luring pigeons with dried fruit..
When walking La Rambla towards the Mediterranean, The warm brown and gold facade of Casa Beethoven beckons on the left. In business since 1880 and full of the dusty scent of undisturbed reams of music, Casa Beethoven serendipitously gifted me with the sheet music of Spain’s own Manuel de Falla. Tucking the little package under my arm, I continued on, stopping only when the scent of fresh fruit, chocolate and saffron pulled me aside. Turning to the left again, I entered and wove my way through the tiny stalls of La Boqueria. Tracing it’s lineage to the 12th century, La Boqueria assaults the senses with vibrantly colored and crisply scented, proudly displayed produce, spices, meats, and confections. Packed in with hundreds of excited tourists, I quickly moved past the first few stalls and into the quieter depths of the market. Upon purchasing enough saffron to scent my luggage and elevate my food for a year, I emerged from the market, eager to touch the sea before racing back to our group dinner. 
I passed the 19th century Gran Teatre del Liceu, pausing only briefly to marvel over the current printed opera season, I circled the 200 foot monument to Columbus, winking up at him trapped on his pedestal above and I crossed quickly to the boardwalk, hearing the water gently lap against the wood and rock. I took a breath tasting salt, faced Rome, waved to Saint Peter and then turned around, the promise of food fueling my harried footsteps back to the hotel. 
