I don’t believe in the Father, Son or the Holy Spirit. As a secular liberal I actively oppose all Abrahamic sky-gods on principle. You only have to watch the news to see what they have to offer and it’s not pretty. Just there are occasions, where I find myself a wilting agonistic, one longing for a communal bond with my fellow wo/man. It happened by accident of course, when I travelled to Zaragoza, and checked into my 3* hotel. Muddled and half asleep, I collapsed onto my bed for a solitary hour’s rest before dinner.
Come evening, I surrendered to my roaring appetite and headed towards the city centre for meatballs and patatas bravas. Along the way I took instantly forgettable pictures of the Cathedral Basilica on my smartphone. Why I persist in taking photos I never check or upload onto Facebook for approval I do not know.
Zaragoza city centre was jostling with life on my arrival and the sky had faded into a particularly tender shade of blue. Africa swifts were swooping down for dying insects, doll kids were playing tag and a marching band of lanky olive teenagers were blowing their own trumpets. Life here is good.
Before settling down for the dinner, I pushed open the cathedral’s main door and intruded on a Saturday night mass. I had no intention of staying long. I just wanted to have a wee look and nothing more. Skirting around the back like a Protestant ghost, there were rows upon rows of t-shirted families blessing themselves in front of old men in white robes. I don’t understand Catholic rituals or what you’re expected to do.
Having spent so much of my adult life London, it now feels strange for me to mingle in an exclusively local place. A city where everyone looks the same. Apart from the revellers checking their WhatsApp messages at the back, this could have been Zaragoza forty years ago such was the regional sense of familiarity.
When the cathedral began singing I realised this wasn’t a proper mass at all. I could barely breathe as the coral ensemble sang. This was music without applause or fanfare. Singing for the love of singing. Shrivelled chess pieces on wooden thrones provided the bass and the mixed choir pitched in with a feminine treble. Listening to ‘Gloria’ soar down the cavernous nave, it felt like I was witnessing a medieval painting bursting into life.
Travelling can throw up these moments of spiritual commonality. Even if like me, you don’t believe in anything at all. But putting my indifference to organised religion aside, I wouldn’t want to see nights like this disappear entirely. For if nothing else, I now have one beautiful memory of Zaragoza that I could not possibly save, picture or record.
