24 April 2011

Holy Week: Harry and Mary

Semana Santa (Holy Week) has descended upon Spain. In its wake remains millions of flower petals tossed from balconies onto weeping Marys and graphically wounded Jesus' as they parade through the streets on golden altars, led by what appears to be a KKK reunion, but is nothing more than a group of Catholics in masks. Weather permitting, the processions took place every day, and to be honest, they freaked me out a little. But, it's Spanish tradition and I'm glad I was able to experience it here.

The first part of my Holy Week was appropriately spent making my highly-anticipated, sacred pilgrimage to King's Cross Station in London, to Platform 9 3/4.  Let me be clear: I've dreamt of visiting King's Cross since Harry came into my life in the late 90's.Therefore, this journey was a BIG DEAL.



King's Cross is under construction, thus the homage to Harry was not actually between Platforms 9 and 10, and was really just a shitty fake wall. I didn't care. I was there. In was in King's Cross. It was happening. I was standing where generations of Hogwarts students have begun their magical education. I was standing where Harry speaks in the nude to Dumbledore at the end of Deathly Hallows and is forced to choose between what is right and what is easy. I was physically shaking and had that nervous diarrhea feeling as we searched for the Platform. Once it came into my line of vision, I stopped in awe and experienced a bout of dizziness; then, the tears came. These tears were not just silent, gentle droplets that fall quickly and cleanly, like an Olympic skater who fucks up her quadruple axle but brushes herself off the ice with grace and skill and that's that. No, these were streaming, hot, messy tears. Blotchy skin. Some genuine sobbing. Some snot. Some squealing. That feeling of having your heart wrenched around that makes your body cave in. In a good way. (See photo).
Before we left, there was a long line of people next to Platform 9 3/4, waiting for their turn to take a picture. The size and steadiness of the line made me tear up all over again.
The trip to Platform 9 3/4 was overall a very spiritual experience. I felt fulfilled, satisfied, refreshed. I had completed a mission I've been burning to carry out for over half of my life. It was also bittersweet, considering that it was the most momentous occasion of my life, thus if I follow a standard bell-curve, everything will be of lower quality and lower significance from now on. (Though, I struggled with bell curves enough in my spring semester of Statistics 350. Fuck bell curves. They will never be part of my life again.)

As I numbly walked out of King's Cross, I realized what Catholics feel when they shake hands with or have their baby's head kissed by the Pope. And I don't mean that sacrilegiously. I really do understand. My love for Harry's story is only comparable to religious devotion. Yes, I am fundamentalist Christian's worst nightmare.

1 comment:

  1. I am equally so, so happy for you that this happened
    and really sad to see the picture of you crying. I know it's coming out of joy, devotion, appreciation, but it's sad to see you like that when I'm too far away. And, life is never at the top of the curve, even after Kings, there will be so many amazing things to come!

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