One of the primary motivations for the choosing of the specific retreat I decided to attend had less to do with anything about the programme itself, and more so, the distance from the shuttle disembarkation point from my front door. The lack thereof, that is.
I said goodbye to my friends whom I would have otherwise spent the holiday season with, arrived fifteen minutes before noon, and was asked to wait until we were to be shepherded to the boarding site. In the meantime, I proceeded to do what I normally would when confronted by a room full of strangers, and found a comfortable and sufficiently dark corner to lurk in from which to watch and eavesdrop.
To my surprise and slight dismay, I could not discern any specific demographic pattern in the people that had shown up for this 10-day Buddhist meditation retreat. Which was difficult, as I do adore categorising people I have not met based on momentary judgements. The median age seemed to be around my own, early thirties. The average slightly higher, being that there were many more outliers on the higher range of years than lower. But beyond that, apart from a slightly higher than average density of knitted cardigans, The Retreatants (as they will now be referred to as) seemed to be a perfectly random assortment of people.
The buses were boarded in alphabetical order. Those with first names starting between the letter A and R were to be on the first bus. And the rest, myself included, in the second. It was full enough that I was not able to find a set of two empty seats, which I might monopolise on my own, so I sat next to a man who looked like he would be quiet. I was wrong. So terribly wrong.
Both ours and the conversations around us on the way reminded me much of a short sojourn into various Burns/Burning Man-esque parties and festivals I had found myself in some years back:
Is this your first time attending [cult-adjacent activity of your choice]?
When did you first get into [cult-adjacent activity of your choice]?
What made you? Usually some harrowing life event (death in the family, loss of job, breakup, marriage, etc.)
Do any of your real life friends participate in [cult-adjacent activity of your choice]?
Anyone who refers to any part of their friend group as “real life,” and others as not, takes on a suspect air to me. It happens to be my personal preference to live within the confines of “real life” as often as I can. Unless I have paid good money for substances that will temporarily remove me from it. For strictly recreational purposes.
Most of the way into the journey, which was to end in a Retreat Centre somewhere on the outskirts of Wales, we made a stop at a monument of upper-middle-class indulgence known as Gloucester Services. This was my first exposure to this place, which I was told before we made our stop was a service station. The sort of place I had known prior to this consisted of a gas station accompanied by a Burger King, a McDonalds, and maybe a Pizza Hut. If you’re lucky, they will all be under the same roof. Gloucester Services however, contained not one but three different hot food stations, which included overpriced falafel wraps, overpriced fish and chips, and surprisingly reasonably priced pizzas. Along with a grocery shopping area which would make a Waitrose (or whatever is the equivalent supermarket in your country of residence, whose clientele consists mainly of those whose family have owned land for at least three generations) look like a drug den. I begrudgingly purchased a rhubarb flavoured soda and had my last cigarette for 10 days.
An hour later we arrived in total darkness to The Centre, where we were herded into our rooms. Which were shared. My roommate's name was Thomas, and over the next 10 days I would come to know him as an intelligent and decent man.
