Fireworks! They lurched me awake.
Then church bells. All of them, each with their own timber and rhythms—all different except for their urgency.
It sounded like the entire city.
I sat up and looked around.
The Granada sky was dark through my dorm window. No one else in my crowded room had awoken with me.
The hostel’s security guard caught my attention as I stumbled for my shoes.
“What’s going on? I mean… ¿Que Pasando?”
He replied in English.
“It’s nothing. Go back to bed.”
I did like he beckoned. Soon enough, the noise subsided, and I fell asleep to the sound of the bugs filling the still night air.
At daybreak, the beat of a marching band awoke me once more. This time, I ran outside to see for myself the cause of the commotion and saw the tail end of a marching band as they turn the corner at the far end of the street.
I grabbed my shoes and ran after it. The band stopped at the city’s Central Park.
The day before, I’d seen workers pulling up the paving stones from the walkways of the park’s main square and erecting large timber posts in their place.
Now I could see those posts formed the structural backbone of an enormous wooden stage completed sometime during the night. Flowers and crucifixes covered it, and a choir and a small worship band played on the stage.
Below them, thousands of people gathered in the park to sing hymns, pray, and rejoice.
I ran into the park, approached the first spectator I saw.
“¿Por que es este fiesta?” (For what is this party?)
“¡El Papa fue aqui!” (The Pope came here!)
“¿Donde? ¿Cuando?” (Where? When?)
I looked around to find site of this religious celebrity.
The man replied at last.
“A las tres en la mañana.” (At three this morning.)
He grabbed my shoulders and shook me in his excitement.
I thought about the fireworks.
The bells.
The security guard telling me to go back to bed.
Then I left the park.
It was time for breakfast.
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