On Monday, Mommy, Timmy, Joshua, and I visited the Mission San Luis Rey. The mission's lofty, yet calming, white walls stood tall and grand, contrasting sharply with the blue sky. On top of this building, a stately figure—presumably the mission's namesake, King Louis—oversaw the mission, closely monitoring whoever entered. To the Indians who gathered here over 200 years ago, it must have seemed like heaven itself. We, however, were too distracted to notice these things. The moment we arrived, we sprang out of the car and raced to the entrance. We had arrived at 3:45; the mission closed in only fifteen minutes. Thankfully, however, we were allowed in.
Reed-weaved pots, acorns and grinding stones, grass skirts—the pre-mission Indian exhibit, the one we saw first, was, admittedly, kind of boring. (Perhaps I've just seen too many Indian exhibitions over the years [or the Indians didn't really do much].) We passed quickly through this exhibit.
Entering the next room, I felt like I had just been sucked into the past: the bed, a wooden case strung together merely with ropes, was positioned to one side; a lantern hung just above the bed, ready in case of an emergency during the night; a prayer kneeler (which looked rather like a desk with its back and side panels removed) bowed before a crucifix placed directly above it. The room seemed ready and eagerly waiting for its master's return; unfortunately for the poor room, it didn't seem like any masters were planning on arriving any time soon. We decided to leave the room to its vain dreaming.
The following two rooms I honestly found rather dull. The first had what the priests would make (candles and yarn from the livestock in the area) and the next, what they ate (the livestock). Because the remaining rooms of the main building were still unfinished, we went by them quickly and headed toward the exit.
Exiting the main building, we were ushered into a quaint little garden. The garden, beautiful and full of life, was a relief from the musty indoors. Two fountains steadily gurgled, reminiscing with each other about the days when the friar and his priest would come and sit by them. A time-worn staircase ran up a side of the building, urging us to climb; unfortunately, a "staff only" sign compelled us to refrain. Nearby hung a well-rung bell (it was crumbling apart), which Mommy couldn't resist testing its condition (yup, still working). The garden was delightful; I was sorry when we had to leave.Pulling open a door on one of the walls enclosing the garden, Mommy led us into the next room: the chapel. We went directly to a side room. Images of Mary adorned all three walls (the fourth was the door, obviously) with candles and more prayer kneelers standing reverently before each one. In between each altar was a reconciliation room—actually, more like a prison chamber—where a guilt-ridden sinner would confess his many offenses before a listening priest. And yet, even indoors with candles burning throughout the building, the adobe chapel was much colder than the garden had been; there was a perpetual breeze throughout the chapel. Leaving this chilling chamber behind, we exited by a door adjacent to the Mary altars.
The chapel led straight to the graveyard. Hundreds of tombs lined up before us. The some of the more recent graves were decorated with cheery flowers in remembrance of loved ones; others were not so well cared for; even their tombstones—which were to be as a testimony of the deceased—were decaying. A deathly-cold statue stood with her arms spread out, becoming us to join those sleeping underneath us. This ode to death was, to be certain, rather unsettling; we raced out the graveyard (being careful, of course, to avoid stepping on the graves and being grossed out for the rest of the day).
Having left the graveyard, we proceeded down a lush, grassy hill to the lavanderia. The lavanderia was rather like the public sink where the Indians and missionaries could wash their clothes, bathe, draw out water for drinking, and, in general, socialize. Today, however, the lavanderia didn't seem quite as suitable for such things; indeed, it was dry except for a small, mosquito-infected puddle on one side. Several of the mosquitoes—angry at us for invading their property (humans these days!) —bit Joshua on the leg. Needless to say, Joshua got rather irritated as well and began swatting back at those fiends. The mission had been wonderful and calming; needless to say, Joshua—as well as the rest of us—were tired and happy when we went home.
