The Retreat
She told me I looked pretty in yellow. I said she had beautiful blue eyes. I handed her a container of crackers and cheese from my purse. The light turned green. I rolled on.
The “retreat” I was rolling on to was a 50th birthday gift. It was meant to bring joy and relaxation. It did neither. Angst, that’s what I felt as I walked past cars in the parking lot with bumper stickers that read “Release” “Planet Earth” and “Namaste”. Walking up four flights to my room, I passed barefoot individuals with impeccable skin that appeared to sparkle from sweat. In their wake, a trail of sage incense.
As I stepped into my room, which oddly resembled my college dorm, I questioned whether the other guests sparkled from yoga and meditation pursuits, or from the lack of air conditioning. As I shut the door I noticed a placard behind plexiglass: alcohol was not permitted (the bottle of wine I packed was now guilty). Searching for a glass of water, it was over 90 outside, I remembered my fourth grade science teacher Mr. Dalaney’’s words, “heat rises”. I searched for a glass. I hoped cool tap water would help soothe my unease and discomfort. Heat often induces anger, and this was no exception. That’s when I noticed the room was sparse. In addition to no air conditioning or ceiling fans, there was no glass for drinking, no mini fridge, no desk, no pen and paper to jot down my anger. The room, which cost the equivalent of a domestic plane ticket, had only: two twin beds, a sterile armless chair, a dresser and a night stand. This room had the personality of an introvert; it did everything possible to ensure whoever entered its realm would not become too comfortable. It wanted to be left alone.
The light streaming in from the window made the space unbearably hot, so I set out to the lobby gift shop to buy a bottle of overpriced water. It was cold, but by the time I walked four flights back up to my room it was lukewarm like the bottle of wine stashed in my overnight bag, which I determined was time to open. After all, if you’re going to put me in a college dorm situation, I’m bound to revert.
And that’s when I sat on the floor and cried, and I drank. Guilt. Someone who loved me bought the overnight retreat in hopes it would bring joy and relaxation. This experience was meant to mimic the ones I’d had while living overseas, when I would stay at abbeys run by nuns. The minimal cost difference is the most obvious advantage to staying in abbeys, but the rewards extend far beyond monetary. There are similarities between the American retreat and staying with nuns: both offer humble rooms, three homecooked daily meals and beautiful properties perfect for hiking and exploring. But when overnighting in abbeys and monasteries, it’s about the intangibles. Nuns who look like your grandmother cooking for you, often using herbs from their garden. Location, location, location…over the centuries the Catholics have inhabited (taken) some of the most prized properties, so when you overnight at a Kloister you’re often hiking and sleeping with a beautiful view. Along these lines, the stately structures you’re temporarily inhabiting are often cloaked in centuries old history, think ancient stone walls, ivory towers and cobble stone flooring predating the French Revolution. And depending on which abbey you choose, these laywomen are making and peddling their wares: wine, beer, cheese, candy, jams, vinegars, breads, jewelry, scarves & mittens, candles, etc… I once had a nun explain to me that the roof over their head and property were paid for by what the sisters make with their hands and what they charge for overnight guests. It’s a simple concept and in most cases, it works. It’s also worth noting I’m not religious. The nuns welcome walks of all faith, even those who have none (maybe especially those who have none). I’ve never had one of these women approach me, unless the encounter was provoked by me. And I’ve never felt anything other than nourished and safe in their realm.
This recent overnight retreat was an eye opener. It felt forced, rigid and unwelcoming – although its claims were the opposite. The fact it cost 4x’s what the little old nuns do only caused more angst. How could the majority of tired overwhelmed women afford this? They can’t. And what exactly was “this”, other than a mirage masquerading as a holistic escape with tired hallways and guest rooms with gym carpet (was never a good idea). The only warmth stemmed from the fact there was no air conditioning. The saddest part during my stay was overhearing staff mention how they were completely full the next two nights. American women are fooled to believe this is what being taken care of looks like, but in fact it’s what being taken advantage of is. I will give them this, the word “Retreat” was apt, as it made me long to scurry and hide under the closest rock. In hindsight, I should have high-tailed it back to the woman with beautiful blue eyes who said I looked pretty in yellow. She was genuine. We could have sat on a shaded park bench and enjoyed our combined vittles: wine, cheese and crackers – together. Instead I stayed overnight and left early the next morning, not bothering with the free breakfast.
