Monte del Goza to Santiago - part 7

Paulo pulled me into a dance —Journal Excerpt, June 12, 2006.

There wasn't so much time for journal writing on June 12, 2006, and when I read the entry for that day I see how much my mind was trying to make sense of things regarding the future and not the events at hand. As a result, I omitted something rather important that happened during the day of June 12 that I was sure happened on the morning of the 13th. When I emailed Marc about it he was sure I was wrong, and the more I review the events in my mind I think he must right, so before I go ahead to the rest of the evening after that terrible, moody dinner, I will need to go back just a bit.

After lunch, after the post office, after the internet cafe, and while Marc and I were shopping, Marc delivered me a new telegram:

We go to the mass again today Deb. They will make the botafumeiro.

Yes? Why? What? Wait a minute, how do you know?

Xavier told me.

How does he know?

I don't know. He says that some pilgrims paid some money for them to make it, but I don't know. I think he say some German pilgrims. That is what he say to me, but, I don't know. We go to the cathedral before we go to eat, okay Deb?

Okay, Marc.

I searched my mind for how it could be possible for either Xavier or Marc to have gotten this information. I couldn't figure it out. It was a reminder to never underestimate the information collection abilities of the XXL Patootie Pants. I swear I don't know how he does it, but he does, and every time. I can only think that he picked it up from listening in or chatting up the Secret Pilgrim Agents at the albergue before lunch and had discussed it with Marc while we were eating. How I missed the conversation at the lunch table since I was sitting next to Marc and across from Xavier, is beyond my comprehension. Someone must have stuffed my French satellite dish for ears with paella.

And so it was that we all witnessed the botafumeiro in Santiago after all. When Marc and I arrived at the cathedral we were late, having once again lost track of time. We came in the side entrance of the cathedral and as it turned out we had a great view. We stood in the transept and that is the direction in which the enormous incense burner swings. The pews were all filled, but this too was fortunate as we were able to watch the trajectory of the botafumeiro path more easily from our position than from directly underneath. Marc and I stood the entire time near one of the columns. I braced my camera against the column in the hope of getting a photo of it as it flew by. Once again the cathedral was full, and mostly full of pilgrims. It takes a half dozen men in robes to get the botafumeiro flying, but they know what they are doing, having surely done it a thousand times. When it is flying at its peak you hear a great whoosh by your head, and then another great whoosh as it flies back and over to the other side. To watch the pilgrims is somewhat like watching a tennis match: the heads swing in unison to one side of the church and then back to the other. It's funny to think that what has become somewhat theatrical today was originally used to fumigate the many pilgrims who probably smelled a whole lot worse than yesterday's underpants complete with cinnamon crusties, and who quite possibly had a few uncontrolled diseases to pray about—but no matter. When the ritual comes to an end, the priest that grabs it in order to stop it does a little spin with it, practically ending with a dance. I can't remember now if there was applause or not. I think there was actually.

Standing there that day with the sound of the botafumeiro whooshing by my head, it reminded me of the sound of the wind in the wings of the great birds I witnessed on my first day in the first hours of my climb over the Pyrenees. In that sense it brought my journey full circle—but there was something more. When our group gathered afterward, I told Paulo that when the botafumeiro was flying over my head and body I felt as if I was swinging up there too. Gymnasts know what I'm talking about. When you do a tumbling run on the floor exercise, there's a certain moment when you catapult your body into the air that you feel suspended, flying, weightless, and oddly relaxed. It occurs in a split second, and it finishes just as quickly for your safe landing requires concentration, but for that split second you feel it, work with it, use it as a sign of "rightness," come to trust it, and certainly love it. That was how I felt as the botafumeiro flew over my head: suspended, flying, free, non-attached, not in control, soaring up there yet still down here, somehow righted. Paulo's face lit up when I told him what I said. He and I walked and talked about it on our way to our descent into restaurant hell, which brings us back to standing outside in the cool night air in the piazza in front of the cathedral, minus Robert and Claudette.

That night, opposite the cathedral and under the arched walkway of whatever that building was and is, music was playing. Europe is nice that way. Wherever you go musicians are playing or singing in the piazzas. We had heard bagpipes being played in the archway to the side of the cathedral earlier that day. I was delighted most that the great acoustics of that archway amplified his warming up whose sound was something akin to the wheezing of an asthmatic cat with a microphone. The ugliness of that was so lovely that when he started to really play I was disappointed, not to mention nearly made deaf. The music under the walkway opposite the cathedral was another matter. It was a small band, singing and playing Spanish songs, complete with costumes which included capes and excluded cats. When we arrived there was a crowd of people gathered around them in a semi-circle.

While I was standing and listening, Paulo came up to me and pulled me into a dance. I accepted not knowing how to dance, but didn't manage to hurt him or me in the process. We laughed and smiled. Then he danced with Rossella and they laughed even more and began doing crazy stuff out of fun. I watched them and took pictures, more entertained by them than by the band. Then, after some undefined time, they both stopped dancing and hugged each other. The moment had come to begin to say goodbye; quietly, organically, honestly. I watched as Rossella and Paulo shed some tears, then as Paulo came over to me to say goodbye I began to cry too. We smiled at each other and wished each other well. I had his email address and invited him to come see me any time he wanted in Germany. Xavier and Marc said goodbye to him too, and then I watched Paulo step out of the light from under the walkway and fade into the dark of the piazza. When he had gone, Rossella came up to me and threw her arms around me and through her tears began speaking to me in Italian. I couldn't understand all of it, but enough to know that she wished me well and that the two children I had lost in miscarriage were surely safe in heaven. I was touched that she had remembered. I extended her an invitation to come see me too, told her to take care of herself, and then we held each other tight for a few moments. I tried to say something in Italian, then a few more words in English, then watched her go into the dark of the piazza. It hurt to watch them go like that. When I couldn't see them anymore I thought of Claudette. There had been music and singing and dancing after all.

The boys and I walked back out into the piazza after they left. I wouldn't have to say goodbye to them, and particularly to Marc, until the morning when they would all get on the train and head back to France. The only thing I was half worried about was waking up on time to be there. I thought about it for a moment then realized that I probably didn't need to be concerned. After four weeks of walking at the "Crack of Death" I realized it was unlikely that I would sleep much past sunrise anyway. I also knew that Marc wouldn't leave without saying goodbye. With that, I said goodnight and agreed to meet Marc in the morning to walk to the train station with them.