
It was a miserable Wednesday morning. The wind blew strong from every direction and the rain seemed to fall sideways.
One woman held up a hand to shoo me away. I wondered if she knew about that ’80s to ’90s phenomenon where you put out your hand and shouted an exaggerated “ba-rick wall” to whoever you were trying to ignore. It seemed to have vague connections to Valley girls or something. I think a popular comeback when I was growing up was to spit on the perpetrators brickwall hand and say “grafitti.” I held myself back from doing this to the innocent, although slightly rude, old woman.
I watched people cross themselves as they passed the doors.
There was a Gypsy beggar sitting in drizzling rain outside the church entrance.
I turned away from her and rummaged around for change. It was mostly 10 cent pieces and a 1 euro coin. This was not a completely charitable donation. I wanted information. I crouched down and asked if she often waited outside the church.
“I don’t do English.”
Those may not have been her exact words. She tended to mumble, but I gathered “English” and some sort of negative as to her speaking it.
I tried again, rephrasing and speaking clearly. I was really hoping to get a unique angle on church attendance in the area. Obviously, this woman sat outside the church all day, maybe she noticed more people attending lately. Maybe the surge in traffic is why he chose the spot. I got the same answer as before.
“I don’t do English,” she said shaking her head.
I begrudgingly tossed the fist full of change in her paper cup.
After about a dozen parishioners refused me an interview, I decided to give up.
So many excuses came out of the people’s mouths.
“I’ve an appointment at half past 10,” one elderly woman said as she looked at her watch. I offered to walk with her and she declined. I thought the most polite people were the ones who listened to me and then declined. At least they did not lie or ignore me.
“What do you want? Oh, no.”
At another church, a gruff old priest told me point blank there were no new people in the church. I liked him, he didn’t smooth over his words with deceitful tact. Then again, maybe that’s why he’s a lower priest, delegated to selling candles and prayer cards in the church shop. He directed me to a few other priests.
The first priest was not there. I left my number with a woman who seemed to act as secretary and shop keeper.
I found another priest who gave me some decent quotes. While talking to me he touched my arm. I cringed a little. He kept it there until we parted. He seemed like a nice guy overall. It’s just that anyone who is that devoted to Catholicism tends to put me at unease.
He was very bitter about the city taking away the bus stop in front of the church. He partially blamed that for the drop in attendance. I think he hoped I would write it in my story and help his cause.
I did write it in as a kind gesture, although I am sure it will get edited out. It’ a bit of a tangent.
My last stop was the parish priest. He was not there and I was told to come back in a few hours. I did and I was told to come back the next day.
I came back to the Liberties area two days later on Friday. It was a much nicer day.
The one priest had never called me back, so I went again to find him. He was again absent and so I again left my number with the secretary candle seller.
I went to find the parish priest and he was not there either. I was told he was at lunch and to come back in a few hours.
I wandered in the Liberty Market. I wondered what it looked like historically. It had surely let itself go. At least the cheap flea markets in America have some spirit to them. If you’re going to go tacky and cheap, don’t half-ass it. Despite the slim pickings and overall trashiness, the area was busy. Nothing interesting was being sold. No miracle magnet bracelets, WWII knives or cute inbred puppies — just fake brand name clothing and light fixtures.
I was tempted to get something to eat, but the lunch rush hour and long lines ended up dissuading me and saving me money.
There was still a lot of time left so I waited in the church’s Grotto Shrine and Shop – a tacky looking area with rocks masoned together to resemble a shallow cave. Inside the cave are smooth marble-looking walls with a wall of candles. A Mary, mother of Jesus, lawn ornament overlooks the spectacle.
I watched a homeless man discreetly ask praying people for change. One woman knew him by name.
Strangely he never asked me for money. He asked me for a light. I said I did not have one and then procured one out of his pocket. He then asked me for the time, but before I could answer, procured a watch.
A woman on the way out warned the shop keepers that he was there disrupting the spirituality of the shrine.
I went again to harass the parish priest. I rang the bell. Earlier in my attempts, I had become used to ringing the doorbell multiple times and waiting countless minutes for an answer. This time, it swung open right away.
She recognized me from before, but still interrogated my purpose. Eying me suspiciously, we stared at each other for a long time.
“Who are you again?”
I answered and she kept silent. It was a long uncomfortable silence. Her gaze was only broken periodically with a glance to the office out of my view. I wondered if we were having a stare-down and if I had to win it to talk to the priest.
Finally, the parish priest came into view and let me in. I guess I won the stare-down.
He was much larger than the other priests, like a bouncer for the Catholic faith. He had a very firm handshake and was much more wary of me than the others.
We interviewed with him sitting across the room. He gave the politically correct quotes I expected from someone in his position.
I did like one quote where he said the word “bum” in relation to it filling seats. I finished my story with that quote. It seemed appropriate to end a story with a quote about people’s ends.
On the way home I went through a narrow and trashed alleyway because it looked interesting. It ran alongside the church on a side rarely seen by the public.
I stumbled upon an old horseshoe. Instinctively, I picked it up and wrapped it in a brown paper bag that previously held a box of pens (somewhere in interviewing I lost my pen and had to buy more).
I could tell by the remnants of manure on the ground that the novelty horse and carriages sometimes went through here. I looked at the seldom seen side of the church. It was bordered by ugly concrete slabs and chain link fencing. It looked like a crack addicts playground. The concrete was flat enough, though. I thought the priests could easily set up some basketball hoops and get their game on between sermons.
There were bike tires, broken bottles and plastic bags scatted everywhere. It was the polar opposite of the Grotto shrine on the other side of the church.
I went home and cleaned up the horseshoe. I hung it in the hallway by the front door. As I was finishing the story, it fell down with a clang.