I wanted to tell the monk that this place was mine, it had waited for me for almost a thousand years and that since I had flown all the way from Florida (via Turkmenistan) for our reunion, I felt a tad entitled to it, it kind of made me a little bit Scottish. Ok, 99.9% Colombian and the rest Scottish and here is why:
1. The Abbey was built in the 6th century.
2. William Wallace (not Mel Gibson) was educated here.
3. A fire destroyed it in 1307.
4. Its restoration took at least fifty years.
5. King Robert II of Scotland was born here; his wives and those of King Robert III are buried here.
6. The Abbey’s central tower collapsed in the 16th century and neither the choir nor the transepts were restored until the 19th and 20th century.
Within its walls were sad monks, burials, self-flagellation sessions in spartan little cells, celestial music, sin, faith, tears and redemption.
See? That’s why I claim ownership over the abbey. It is mine because it has survived for 16 centuries, because its pillars, solid with memories, held it together in one piece for me to walk in, for me to see, for me to be drowned in its silent stained windows.
When I went back to the Abbey, the monk had stepped out of his clerical clothing. He had on a pair of black Levi's Jeans, running shoes (Adidas) and an over-sized fleece hoodie that made him look like a monk in full mid-life crisis. He nearly killed my evocation of Sean Connery and those naughty, naughty monks in the movie, including Salvatore, the terrifying hunchback monk played by Ron Perlman (Sons of Anarchy).
I tried not to look at him as I entered the abbey and reclaimed it.
It was all mine.
For about 20 minutes.
just outside the abbey,
and the present.