Catholic Block

At the town entrance we see pizzerias and banks. "You mean this is a town like all the others?", I ask mock-increduously. "N'inquiète, je me sens déjà transpercé par le saint esprit", answers Tom snidely, "don't worry, I am already transfigured by the Holy Spirit". He lets me feel it wasn't him who wanted to come to Lourdes, the holy site for Catholic pilgrims. I have had a rather hard time persuading him, citing the excuse to go on a jaunt into the mountains at the same time. Thankfully, the crown of snow-capped Pyrenees clasping the town circularly are indeed awe-inspiring.

We arrive around six o'clock p.m., when most of the souvenir outlets that close in on the cathedral already have their doors locked and their neon signs switched off. I do wonder whether Mecca, too, has become a paradise for believing money-makers (or maybe make-believe moneymen?). Gladly the hour spares us the sight of the excesses of pious consumption, although Tom actually takes a couple of pictures of the flashy lettering announcing the shop names: "Palace of the Rosary", "Under the Protection of Holy Mary". As the cherry on the cake, above our heads in the night-sky flickers the sign of the "Hotel of the Saviour".

The cathedral on the hill jutting out over the cave where Bernadette saw the Virgin Mary 150 years ago is massive, and I admit I kind of like its fairy-tale like style. It is a relatively recent, 19th century construction and gives you a break from usual French ecclesiastic architecture. When I enter the chapel I dip my fingers into the stoup at the door and cross myself. I even light a candle and make a wish for my cat allergy to be cured. If a wonder happens I'll come back and ask for my insomnia, indigestion and bad temper to be alleviated as well, and hey, I will be ready to become all religious all of a sudden. In reality of course, I see the finger-dipping and candle-lighting as hollow formalities, fun to perform this one time that I act the part of the pilgrim. Even though I could probably not be more cynical, Tom makes fun of me, says I am a crypto-catholic. I retort that I have been a staunch atheist since early teenage years, and have nothing to proove. Just one remark: I assume that those searching for spirituality in these gestures feel above suffering offence by me mimicking them in this manner.
The way I see it is this: With all the trips I have made to other religions' holy sites, be they Alevite springs in Dersim, Shi'i shrines in Iran, or Druze mausoleums in Syria, by now I think it ridiculous to try to ignore as much as possible the religion passed down to me culturally by my family. Tant qu'à faire, I might as well go back to the roots.
Indeed, catholic devotion runs in my blood: It was my grandma who first told me of Lourdes. She used to send me letters urging me to pray three times a day so I would never have any worries in life, enclosing each time a vial of holy water. So later that evening I write post-cards to my brother and cousins, "Today our grandmother would have become fulfilled with bliss, because I finally visited Lourdes".

In the evening, after dusk, we retire to our van. Tom plays his instrument. With a grave voice he executes this sad, beautiful and touching song:

"J'aurais voulu être président,
mais maintenant je joue à l'accordéon,
même si c'est un instrument pour les cons"

Later, when we go to bed, sleeping uncomfortably in the back of the rickety jalopy of our van, which is too short to stretch out our legs, we decide not to tease from fecundity this time. Usually shielding ourselves from unwanted gravidity through the ancient art of belly painting - that night we take the road of Immaculate Contraception.