The Postscript: Monks in the morning

There will be monks here tomorrow morning,” is what I figured Jorge was telling me. In Spanish, “monks” sounds like “monkeys” in English. But I was pretty sure we were not having monkeys over for breakfast.

Jorge is my landlord here in Mexico, and he speaks only Spanish to me. He will speak some English when my husband, Peter, is around. But if it’s just me, he’ll stick to Spanish, and I am fine with that, but it doesn’t mean I get 100% of what he says.

“Very good!” I answered, because I didn’t know how else to respond. Then he said something about meeting them, if I wasn’t too busy.

“Oh, certainly!” I said, although I honestly had no idea what I was agreeing to. “What time tomorrow?”

“9:00.”

“OK!” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

This sort of thing happens to me a lot. I actually speak Spanish fairly well. The problem is that Spanish speakers (like Jorge) grossly overestimate how much I understand. I can only ask someone to repeat something so many times without seeming rude or incurably stupid, or both. So, eventually, I just gather that there will be monks arriving, for some reason, and go with the flow.

Later in the day, I quizzed the kitchen staff to see if I could get more intel.

“There are monks coming in the morning?”

“Yes.”

“Do they speak Spanish?”

“No.”

“Do they speak English?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Do you know why Jorge wants me to meet the monks?”

The kitchen staff shrugged in unison.

“OK. I will just say, ‘Hello, monks!’”

The kitchen staff laughed. So that was the plan.

What I know is that Jorge is always volunteering. He makes more than 100 sandwiches for children who come to visit the city from small villages every month. He sets up displays at the nearby fountain over Holy Week. He creates an enormous altar celebrating those who have died for All Souls’ Day. I was sure, whatever this was about, it was something kind that Jorge had volunteered to do.

The monks showed up early. They were Buddhist monks in orange robes. Jorge was nowhere to be seen, but every other staff person was in the kitchen preparing a huge breakfast.

Peter and I cautiously approached the monks. They spoke English, as it turned out.

“Are you enjoying your stay?”

“We are enjoying it very much.”

“How long will you be staying?”

“Five weeks.”

“It’s nice you get enough time to see the city.” Everyone smiled, and Peter and I returned to our apartment.

After breakfast, they began to chant.

At least two of the monks were doing “throat singing.” It is a low, growling harmonic sound that carried throughout the courtyard. (Our cat, Felix, did not like it at all, and hid under the bed.)

The procession of monks carried incense and bells up the outdoor stairs from the courtyard, past our apartment, and up to the roof. It appeared to be a kind of blessing, and one of the monks playfully splashed us with water as he passed. (Felix remained under the bed.)

And I marveled, as I so often do, how little of what happens I really understand. I don’t know half of what happens at this hotel. I don’t know why the monks came. I don’t know what they were doing or why they were doing it.

But I know I felt good, listening to them chant, and I know when they splashed water on us, they were wishing us well. And really, that’s all that matters.

Till next time,

Carrie

——

Carrie Classon is married to Havre native Peter Heimdahl. Her memoir, “Blue Yarn: A Memoir About Loss, Letting Go, & What Happens Next,” was published in 2019. Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.