The Christian dormitory, the Maison St. Therese, is the only budget accommodation available during the off season after Christmas in Lourdes, a pilgrimage at the feet of the Pyrenees. I noticed during the walk from the tourist office after my unplanned arrival that the small streets were tight with closed hotels and hibernating businesses. I was helpfully welcomed at the budget dormitory by Otilia, one of the organizers and Laetitia, who was a temporary volunteer. With breakfast and dinner included, the place would provide one of the better lodging experiences during my time in France.
As one of the three people checked in, I sit on my short bed in a clean room named after a saint wondering what sort of man my luggage would build. The meantime reminds me of a quotation that says, ‘Art theory is for artists as ornithology is for birds.’ An anonymous investigator assigned the duty of devising my identity would find the Echinacea pills that I recently purchased and might correctly conclude that I was suffering from a sore throat. Or he might notice that all my clothes are either tidily folded or neatly rolled and deduce that I am a fastidious packer. He would track my journey by the Visa receipts that I keep in the top of my bag or from the left-handed scribble of the black notes in my journal. He could review my literature and books, and discover what topics hold my interest. He would undoubtedly spot the purple lavender sachets Cherie so wonderfully made and be reassured that I’d rather spend money on food, lodging and transportation than on laundry. Would he mistake my shoes as being owned by someone over seven feet tall?
Cathedral over shrine to St. Bernadette.
And then I question whether this hypothetical investigator would understand that the rhubarb jam I carry comes on the recommendation of an American bird watcher I met in Avignon? And from what would he devise a purpose for my visit to Lourdes, or France for that matter? My ‘Every Day is Earth Day’ T-shirt and my organic cereal perhaps would direct a train of thoughts towards the idea that I have a particularity for sustainable environmental practices, but would it indicate that I wake up sometimes and believe that I am lying in my own bed in Victoria?
Such details are lost in the gaps between objects. What number of items, what amount of stuff would need to be condensed in my backpack in order to eliminate all gaps and to lay the seeds of a successful investigation? It would be an infinite assemblage of an ever-growing assortment of experiences. My ownership continually grows as if I were diluting water with water. Without doubt, the investigator is doomed to fail: it is an impossible task because no backpack is large enough and no officer has the immeasurable time required.
Yet without my memorable consent, travelling has laid all the pieces of my small life before me and commanded that I assemble them. In fact, the order came before my memory and ends just after it but the simplicity of a limited amount of storage space has cleaned away the dirt that clouds and hides the call. Even my refusal to comply with such demands is another item next to the Echinacea that awaits cataloguing.
And so I sit in an empty dormitory for the Faithful, thankful for the warm meal and ingenuous surroundings, with a looming knowledge that I am doomed to fail at a task that is strangely already complete: It is an ornithological undertaking and I am a bird.
Pryanees Mountains.
From the top of Mount Beoute in Lourdes, I can see the lake to the North West that I walked around yesterday. I am immediately eager to see and to show the photo I took of the view. I am not too impatient, however, to be disappointed about the absence of the direct gratification a digital camera would afford. My disposable will do. Today at the top of the mountain, I am pleased with my hike and content with my decision to visit France, perceptively aware of the changing nature of my momentary and circumstantial affection. Particularly gratifying was the lunch I ate as I sat behind a large boulder thankfully sheltered from the wind but thankfully not from the sun.
My spoon and its reflection.
From my height, I can also see the tips of the fairy tale castle that sits on top of the shrine to St. Bernadette in the elevated nook of the small city. The rock at the shrine is smooth, black and glassy from the river of hands that constantly brush its lengths. The cold would not deter the faithful from filling the most enormous gallons full of the holy water that springs from the rock with its history of miraculous healing. As I watch visitors struggle to carry their jugs and containers home, some part of me still ridicules those that believe gushing quantity will effect more than the reverent dew drop. I see with annoyed and shameful eyes my judgement that their faith is verbose and diluted because of it. As my bag can offer no space for large jugs and I no equal sincerity, I ask that part of me that still lives in arrogant scorn to remain silent as I turn to leave, replacing my toque on my wanting head. To my honest disappointment, in stead of the magic that is said to have once lived here, I see its history of adoption, fabrication and construction. Perhaps it is a magic the faithful bring with them and I was foolish enough only to have brought my judgements.
It bothered me not at the time as my mood was still determinably positive. My sincerity grew more from an acceptance of unfolding events than from the desire for some ‘other’ to approve and heal. And from my elevated position, I could see the splendour of the Pyrenees but somewhere out of site the Spanish border lay. I remember thinking how the land knows how to wait and that you can see it waiting. The snow-capped mountains and the rolling heather-covered hills don’t cough at the smoke of burning leaves, don’t shake their heads in worry over yesterday’s storm and don’t shiver with anticipation of the next chapter. Their flesh is record and breathes so slowly: Their majesty is visible in how they wait.
An unaccountable bleeding nose after my decent and another in Toulouse soon afterward would indicate the lessening of my stamina. My memory of Lourdes is still fond however: typical of her unexpected generosity, Otilia kindly picked me up half way to the train station on the day of my departure and drove me the rest of the way in order that I might not miss my train. How many dormitories do you know offer free shuttles in the off season? I am certain that those at Maison St. Therese picked up the questioning and concern I have written about so far.
Italy had been a potential consideration but for want of better timing and preparation; in Toulouse, my resolve would solidify to end my time in France with a week in Paris…
Tags: travel