So here’s the deal with the rooms. My aunt, who had just turned 70, was invited to stay in the guest house where there would be a real room, with real beds— two to a room— and a real bathroom just down the hall. But I, who had not just turned 70, would not be able to stay with her there. I would have to go sleep with another group somewhere else. My aunt did not hesitate. “We want to stay together.” In that case, we had two choices. I could sense that Jean-Patrique was really going out on a limb for us here; although the brothers endeavor to greet all as Christ, they have a firm rule of no special favors. All must be treated equally. It’s the only way community works. We were given an option of a dorm that was close to the other adult quarters that we would share with a few other people, or a room that was “a bit removed” from the main area that we could have to ourselves. “We’ll take that one,” we said and delighted in the fact that, at least according to the map, we would be off in a stretch of rooms that bordered a private park with walking trails.
“Wonderful!” we chimed.
We then eyed our luggage, two rolling bags— the weeklong, not the weekend size— and two duffels filled with sleeping bag, pillow, sheets, towel. We looked around to see if, perhaps, someone might help us get the bags to the room — the room which was just a bit removed. I turned and saw Stephan smiling by the door. “We’ve got a long way to go with these bags,” I said playfully. You, know, just in case he wanted to take a hint. “Yes, but you’ve got plenty of time.” He waved and went back inside, and we were left alone in the dust.
Have you ever tried to roll two bags up an unpaved slope of dirt and rock? How ’bout down one? “Are you doing alright?” I asked my aunt periodically as we stopped to rest on the way to our room. I was stopping more often than she was as my duffel bag shifted and flopped and toppled my flow every 20 yards or so of the near-milelong trek. All the way down the hill, we talked breathlessly about how blessed we were to get this special room in this special location all to ourselves. My suitcase hit a crater and toppled. My aunt kept going, fearing the loss of momentum. “I’ll meet you there,” I said, muttering in a way that might be considered profane.
And when, at long last, we found it, tucked away at the end of a string of rooms, two rows deep, ours on the inside —not the forest side —with a lovely view just outside our front door of a retaining wall, a curious slope of mud and grass and the back end of someone else’s barracks, there was not another soul in sight. Three bunks and a metal luggage rack and small window to crack for air. And no neighbors.
Our own little slice of heaven in Taize.
(Photo: my aunt Anne in our new digs)
Heather Choate Davis 