“Lourdes? But it’s for religious
fanatics! They’ve got the tackiest stuff there. Holy-water
bottles shaped like the Virgin Mary and hologram postcards and …
”
Lourdes, a town in southwestern France at the foot of the Pyrenees,
is famous for its Roman Catholic shrine. The shrine marks the site
where the Virgin Mary is said to have appeared repeatedly to Saint
Bernadette in 1858. For my upcoming trip, I was sent off with snickers
and sarcasm.
Few places arouse as much reaction (and derision) as Lourdes does.
Many of these reports revolve around the endless souvenir kitsch,
the fervent religious devotion and dubious claims of miracle cures.
I couldn’t wait to see the spectacle for myself.
With a population of about 17,000, this small town receives 5 million
pilgrims per year. More than half of the visitors are made up of
the sick and elderly.
The American Heritage Dictionary defines pilgrimage as “a
journey to a sacred place or shrine,” with a pilgrim as “one
who embarks on a quest for something conceived of as sacred.”
The abstract definitions meant little to me. But perhaps even jaded
travelers could uncover inspiration in Lourdes, the most beaten
of paths.
Along Boulevard de la Grotte, one of the town’s main streets,
endless paraphernalia seduced from wall-to-wall souvenir shops.
I came across a black-and-white photo of 14-year-old Bernadette
Soubirous, whose visions brought the city its recognition.
Though a round-faced brunette with thick eyebrows in life, she
was widely depicted on souvenirs as a fair-haired child with a lamb.
A marketing department somewhere had turned her into a poster pinup
for God.
Even though I had been warned that it was “just a dent in
the hills,” the Grotto of Massabielle, where the Virgin is
said to have appeared, was anticlimactic. From behind the sea of
people, I caught a glimpse of the Virgin Mary statue and objects
hanging from the ceiling and walls of the grotto.
On the other hand, the nearby spring known for miracle-cure capabilities
was an impressive gusher. A very efficient system of faucets sprouted
from a curved metal railing on the side of a hill. When pushed,
the timed taps released energetic streams of water. It all seemed
much more suited to a campsite or a sports stadium than as the source
of a holy spring.
Families lined up at the taps with 5-gallon (19 liter) jugs. A
woman rubbed her feet with determination under an endless stream
of holy water as young people refilled their Evian water bottles.
Everyone had a different method of stocking up on holiness.
The visual centerpiece of the sanctuaries was the Basilica of the
Rosary, built 13 years after the apparitions. The breathtaking affair
of spires and towers with gold detailing gave the place a surreal,
fairy-tale air.
“What? Is this Disneyland?” was Benoit Porte’s
reaction during his first visit. Benoit was an old college buddy
known for the perpetual grin on his face and pint of beer in his
hand.
He was also the only person I knew who devoted two weeks every
summer to a religious organization. With l’Hospitalité
Saint Roch, he attended to the old and sick on their Lourdes pilgrimage.
Only in his 20s, Benoit was one of the younger volunteers. His
initial judgment of Lourdes had faded as he took on his duties:
changing beds, washing sheets and cleansing pilgrims too weak to
do the job themselves.
Having taken part in his share of processions, prayers and masses,
Benoit has come to see all of these activities as different forms
of meditation. “Each person has his own way of reaffirming
his faith,” he explained.
I couldn’t understand why the sick and dying would make the
risky trip to Lourdes when the chance of a miracle cure was reputed
to be nonexistent. “Don’t they get disappointed? Aren’t
their expectations crushed?”
Knowing that I did not have a religions upbringing, he tried to
simplifly the situation for me. “They don’t come expecting
miracles. Some of the bedridden pilgrims don’t see more than
a handful of people all year. When they come to Lourdes, they get
a rush of compassion and openness. They find themselves surrounded
by people who share the same understanding.”
From a mezzanine on the side of the basilica, I paused to watch
the pilgrims assembling for mass. The gentle shuffling into place
recalled none of the pushing and shoving that characterized the
French gatherings I had known.
Wheelchair pilgrims took up the first rows, as stretchers were
pulled up in front of them. For the first time since my arrival,
my sarcasm faltered. “In Lourdes, they find relief in their
suffering. And they give relief to others” was how Benoit
put it.
Trying to reconcile my conflicting impressions of the town, I brought
up the kitsch question. “Aren’t people offended that
religion has gotten commercialized? Those souvenirs are so tacky.”
In response, Benoit recounted a story of a town in Argentina. To
this day, the townspeople pray to a statue of the Virgin Mary that
pilgrims had brought back from Lourdes. This gift was the pilgrims’
way of sharing the experience with those who couldn’t make
their own pilgrimage.
One morning, I watched a man with a cane carefully picking over
a selection of Saint Bernadette handbags and baseball caps. I wondered
who he was thinking of back home.
Is Lourdes just another city whose existence is centered on a thriving
tourist industry? While it embraces all the requisites of such a
place, it does so with a twist.
Though Lourdes holds the record for the French city with the greatest
number of hotels outside of Paris, most are of the modest, bare-bones
variety. Effort is made to provide handicap facilities, but is nothing
else to write home about.
Nondescript restaurants offer simple French fare … plus pizza,
plus ice cream, with fries on the side. Translations in five languages
give their laminated menus an unexpected cosmopolitan touch.
Walking back up Boulevard de la Grotte, I paused before a series
of wall hangings with prayers in 12 languages — from Maltese
to Croatian to Tamil. Some people sure had come a long way to be
here.
Somehow, the concept of “the beaten path” started to
lose its previously straightforward connotations. In a world where
there are fewer barriers to where we can go and how we can travel,
our expectations are as elevated as the possibilities.
The idea of a journey as sacred means the chance to put down the
guidebook checklists and skepticism. It means strapping on a little
faith. When I asked Benoit why he made the trip to Lourdes year
after year, he replied, “de partir ailleurs et revenir
différent” — to go away and return a different
person. If that is what traveling can be, then it’s a beaten
path worth exploring.
[originally published in Go World
Magazine / March 2006] |
