I do not remember exactly the first time I dreamed of going to Petra. I don't know if it was with 9, with 12 or with 15 years. What I do remember, however, It was a weekend morning when classical music -posibly Schubert- He resonated vehemently in the living room. My parents entertained hours in everyday little ones and I was looking for something, I don't remember what, Among the thousands of books that covered the walls of the dining room.
Then I saw her: The Treasury Facade -imponent, majestic, atrocious- decorating as a small promise wrapped in pink the cover of that big format book and hard tapas to which chance had led me for no reason or reason or reason. I stayed there, trapped in her, Fantasizing with stories of Tintin in the bowels of the rock -or maybe I had already seen it in Indiana Jones and his sudden vision brought adventure hangers. When I asked my father about that filigree sculpted stone told me that it was a city hidden in the desert and that did nothing but spur my imagination.
Fantasizing with stories of Tintin in the bowels of the rock
Since then, I returned to Petra many times. Physically lying in bed, on the bus on the way to school, In the supermarket by my mother, On the swings balance my sister. Mentally far, appeared after a stone fold with my galloping heart while pursuing me Indians and jeans, ogros, Witches and other enemies that lurked me from the most remote paths of my imagination. It had to wait a lot until mind and body coincided with the hidden city. And, however, I must say that, unlike those that usually happen when one has waited for too long, reality did not disappoint.
The endless Siq gorge added half an hour more to the long wait. His steep walls, as stone giants guarding our entrance, They swallow us allowing us to reveal their secret. And there I was, overwhelmed, small and expectant, walking next to Bedouins who, aboard his donkeys, They invited me to ride. I declined all the invitations willing to reach on foot -Degusting every step, entertaining me in each look- The Treasury, convinced to extend the wait a little more, in savoring those last minutes that separated me from what had been my particular game room for so long.
Moments in life that will become part of the unforgettable list
I was aware of being about to live one of those moments in life that will become part of the list of unforgettable, indelible, eternal. Like the first kiss. Like the birth of a child. Like when you finally see the Taj Mahal and you can't stop your eyes from getting wet. And there are icons in the world to which it is impossible to be oblivious. We spend our lives waiting for them and when they are there, When you are living them, When you have those lips glued to yours, That nurse taking your hand, that miserable unpolluted white of Saris hurting the retina… Somewhere in the brain is responsible for not letting it escape, of retaining it indefinitely, to mummify it so you can return to him as many times as you want in the future. And I was about to make Petra forever a refuge to travel to, no longer with imagination like when I was little, but with the memory.
And so it was. Suddenly, between two immense walls that seemed to want to swallow the gorge, The partial and fragmented vision of the Treasury. And Petra is so shy, so jealous of your space, so exquisite in your stone hiding place, that one cannot reach it with an look at the first. Petra must be cut slowly, Like a rogged skin lady who after a bad step can run away, gradually gaining your trust and, her, The increasingly complete vision of its unique sculpted silhouette about the passage of time.
