On the train ride I met a couple, Tim and Elaine, who asked me to join them for a drink once we got off in SJC. They took me to a bar in an old train car where we drank gin and tonic and talked about adventure, getting old, and family drama. They left to celebrate with the crowds and I to find a bed.
San Juan Capistrano was packed with people there to celebrate the return of the swallows, though, as a girl in the coffee shop assured me, the swallows haven’t returned for years, it’s just an excuse to get drunk on Main Street. I had just made my last meal on dry fruit and almonds from my backpack, so I didn’t really feel like eating that again. I walked around looking for a cheap dinner, but the Mexican grill was packed with people dancing to live music, plus there was a over charge, and the Italian restaurant was $30 a plate. I ran into Tim and Elaine again, and Tim gave me $10 or the cover charge. Nobody asked me for cover, so I used it to buy a burrito instead. The band was too loud to hear anybody talking, but I tried to smile and be friendly as I watched all the people. I met several drunk festival goers who had no reason to befriend me except for the obviously hilarious spectacle of my huge backpack. Some lady who worked in real estate (I know because she gave me her card) started introducing me to everybody. I don’t know if even she knew them, but they mostly just kept dancing. The burrito was delicious, but it just made me tired, and I wasn’t about to spend time and money prolonging my reason for being crammed into tight quarters with a bunch of strangers, too drunk to get this old, so I slipped out and crossed the street to the mission. I slept in the basilica garden, right under the bell tower, huddled up against the wall.
I woke to the bells ringing at 6:30, packed up, and went to coffee to wait for 7:30 mass. I brushed my teeth in their bathroom and had some tea. The woman behind the counter seemed to like me, but I had no time. At 7:15 I went to mass in the mission. I had forgotten that it was daylight saving time again, so I was an hour behind, but I had also gotten the wrong mass time, so I was only 15 minutes late. It was a traditional Latin Mass, and the house was packed. It took me most of mass to get past the front door, and I still couldn’t hear much of what was being said. After mass, some of the men met me at the door and I explained myself. They walked me to the street and gave me directions to St. Michael’s Abbey where I have a friend I want to visit. As they all parted ways, one of them invited me to breakfast with them at a bar across the street, Hennessey’s.
“Just like Catholics to hit the bar after Mass.” I joked.
“We just get breakfast and coffee” he assured me, but I think he misunderstood. I got bloody Marys and Eggs Benedict.
I ate with four gentlemen usher of the church, and we talked about this n that. I of course got plenty of questions and congratulations. One of the men, Michael, said that he could drive me up to St. Michaels since he lives in that direction. They bought my breakfast, something I’m going to miss after this trip is over.
At Saint Michaels, Their mass was almost over, so we waited outside. Michael met a couple coming out, and seemed very happy to see them. He later told me that they used to sit together in mass, and the husband was his mentor in a way when he became an usher.
I asked one of the priests if Frater Jude was available, it took some time to find him, but he came out excited and hugged me like a long absent brother. During lent, they do not receive visitors, but he got permission to speak with me for a few minutes. We spoke briefly, I explained my trip in as few words as possible, he laughed and congratulated me, and asked me to pray for him. Apparently he’s having a hard time of it right now.
Michael said I could stay with him in Santa Anna, so we went back to his house and listened to reggae music. His neighbors came over to meet me and we talked about my trip, the Catholic Church and mystical experience. At one point someone said, “The church isn’t magic, but it is magical.”
800 Miles south 