Even if I was not lost, I felt like one. The busy streets were roaring. Cars, lights, crowds and my foreign wandering self. Dozens of sweaty purple men raised their hands to carry God. Enthusiasm and devotion of believers, no matter what they believed in, never failed to amaze me. I saw it before in Jerusalem, Mecca Tokyo, Cairo and Rome, and I laughed at what I have always been told as a child, that signs of devotion of the believers were the best proof they were on the right path. And as usual there was only one right path.
The God's slow 19-hour-journey reached its final destination. The last few hundred meters consumed more than 3 hours. I placed myself in the middle of the yellow plaza, and did not forget to check if my wallet was still in the safer jeans front pocket after I removed it from the vulnerable back one. It was there.
I was not wearing my contact lenses, neither did I remember to bring the glasses. So, the image of the Lord was blurry, and the sword of sorrow that pierced in the soul was invisible.
By then, the crowds were in their absolute zeal. Chants, ringing bells mingled with emotions on the sparkling path. Again as usual, the only sparkling path.
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