Another day at the office: early start, frugal breakfast, express meditation and off we walk. Today’s novelty was the police. A patrol car was waiting for us on the way out of Pavia and escorted us while we walked along the main road, as if we were the Dalton brothers themselves. The police scene didn’t lack lighting either: we were all equipped with torches. More than a group of pilgrims, it looked like a Coldplay concert.
Further on, one section decided to shatter the peace of the night by imitating, for far too long, the cry of peacocks, which teleported us back to our own Parc de la Ciutadella. Although there was a beautiful moon that Gru would love to have in his display cabinet, the young people were zigzagging more than a snake in a comic, to the point that Rita Llopart found herself almost in the other lane. Luckily, the officers did their job and there was no danger at all.
The rest of the stage was marked by the monotony of moving forward in single file in a way that any processionary caterpillar would envy. But we know: that’s how it goes when you walk along a main road. Today Marc León was a bit sad because the wind wouldn’t let him fly his precious drone, Miguel del Pozo ended up in the ditch after an epic slip, Jaume Morer managed to get every lorry that overtook us to honk at us, and Ana Gel “discovered” that Fer Marqués is a walking replica of Tony from West Side Story (most of us are inclined to think she hasn’t actually seen the film, because even a kiwi looks more like the actor).
When we arrived, Luis Jaureguizar showed off his Portuguese (worthy of Duolingo) by striking up a robotic conversation with some old ladies, and Misha Horodilov managed to stop a ceiling fan with a mattress. Then we all lay down to sleep for three hours and yes, indeed, the room looked like a morgue.
After a lunch of sandwiches, the female contingent showered elegantly in showers set up for the occasion, while the male pack was executed by hosepipe, with water colder than the block of ice at CosmoCaixa, by a Xipi who couldn’t quite hide a half-smile.
In the afternoon we had the spiritual trident, with Mass presided over by Father Joaquim, a Portuguese priest with enough Spanish to give a good homily. Then we went to dinner and, as it was Alex’s birthday, we had Coca-Cola, local soft drinks (a curious mango concoction stood out) and nuggets with barbecue and curry sauce. Mind you, that was after a good plate of lentils.
At pudding, Fr Ferran and Nacho Campmany (I know, this man turns up in every chronicle, but the lad earns it) made their respective crème caramels vanish from their plates in microseconds, sucking them up like vacuum cleaners on legs. To finish, you should know that we now have the official WYD kit and, by popular demand, our Antonio Belmonte put on his cap Trueno Pai-style to applause from all the pilgrims. Finally, we all listened together to the interview that COPE did with our three Oscar hopefuls: Belén Crespo, Nacho Lorda and Fer Marqués.
That’s all, family: we love you. A hug, a kiss and a flower.