International Crime Spree

I got kicked out of two churches today in two different Spanish cities. I’m on an international crime spree.

First, in Astorga, I visited the Cathedral near the Gaudi palace. Google said there was a mass at 9:30, however, when I showed up I apparently was the only one invited. Except, the only problem is that I wasn’t actually invited. I just walked in because Captain Google said I could.

Imagine my surprise when, mid-prayer, two non-burly Spanish men came up to me and told me to leave. (Cue Godfather background music here, except Godfather is the wrong country,) In my very best 1994 Nebraska Spanish I told them I was there for mass. They told me it was closed, in their very best “we actually live here” Spanish, and almost politely ushered me to the door. Google and prayer completely disregarded, I was kicked out of Church #1.

Then, a long walk and a short bus ride later, and after a fair bit of meandering around the next town up the mountain road, I was drawn to a 1500s cathedral in the Ponferrada town square. Freshly showered, pep in my step, and focus in my heart I went in.

Inside, I did all the church-appropriate things I’ve seen my boyfriend do a dozen times. Kneel briefly at the end of the aisle. Kiss my hand. Cross myself. Bow to the cross or Mary or whatever saint is left in charge that day. Enter solemnly. Sit. Respect. Pray.

I entered into His gates with Thanksgiving and into His courts with praise.. I sat there in the semi-dark sanctuary lifting up my kids and his one-by-one. I talked with God about me getting another job that pays (because author-tourist doesn’t pay so well), I gave thanks for the day and the ways He’s spoken to my heart. Then, I paused.

It wasn’t the Gregorian chants or the monkish choir I heard practicing in another room that stopped me, although I really enjoyed listening to them. It wasn’t the image of the Mother and the saints that was lovingly carved in the top of the sanctuary. It was me, the pilgrim, the peregrino,,,,

Back up about 22 moments. When I arrived at the aburgene my hosts offered me a shower right away. I must’ve needed it. They also (cue the rays of sun, parting clouds and angel choir) offered me a washer and dryer for my clothes (again, apparently needed). I cleaned myself, put on my two remaining non-nasty items, and went downstairs for a bowl of much-needed “tengo hambre” lentils. Post-lentil my hostess gave me a map (Exhibit A), encouraged me to enjoy the day, and sent me off to the Old City.

So there in the old city I sat, in the sanctuary, praying for kids and life and God’s grace. Never gone through the official classes to know when to kneel or stand or kiss a hand or touch the water, I did the best I could from memory and kneeled and kissed and crossed and prayed.

So, there i was praying… in my last remaining non-nasty clothes, which ended up being quick-dry yoga shorts (thank you, Lulu, for giving them pockets) and a halter-back Rahab-red tank top.

Oh. My. Breaking-every-rule-of-European-classic-Cathedrals gosh. Are you serious? Are you kidding me right now? Like, really, Rebecca? Yoga shorts (but they have pockets) and a tank-top?!? There I was, head and shoulders, knees and toes in a cathedral all uncovered.

I didn’t even need two security guards this time. This time I ousted myself all on my own. God bless the gracious and lovely caretaker who must’ve thought that women in Rahab-red tank tops need Jesus, too. He didn’t say a word. But he must’ve listened to the monk choir in the background and said a prayer for the sanctuary that I’d unwittingly unsanctioned that day.

So here I sit, with a scrumptious glass of Vino Tinto and a tapas (tortillas y papas), the cost of using the bathroom on the way back to my hostel and my dignity and all.

There I am, on my international crime spree. Kicked out of two churches in one day and my wine-soaked prayers offering up a moment of papas-laden communion.

Somewhere on the Camino…