Toward the end of September I met up with nine of my high school friends in Florida, a week ahead of Helené, most of us in one big house, and I am hear to tell you, my ears are still ringing. I don’t know that we were overly loud, although we were certainly chatty. It’s just that my life for a long time now, is very quiet.

If I want noise, I head to my niece’s, the mother of toddler twins and a three-year old. They giggle, they cry–real tears or fake ones–the dog barks, sometimes at nothing, although she may be begging passers-by to rescue her from the madness. She is old and seems thinner than normal. I worry about her, until I see that both twins quite enjoy her kibble, and they walk around with it on their breath or soggy bits stuck to their shirts.

I like noise and activity for a little while, and then I need to read a book.
When you read this I should be just back from a quick trip to Canada. I wanted to hear a foreign language spoken, but I wasn’t up for a transatlantic jaunt. I talked one of my high school chums into going with me. It was back last December and we had to make a quick decision, and our calendars were pristine and free from obligation for October.
That was before the Florida trip came up. And for my pal, Nancy, since summer she has run from the Lake of the Ozarks to Philadelphia to keep her grandchildren, to Florida, and a day after returning from that, a road trip to Hilton Head, with a three day space before we were to leave for Quebec. On most days, trips or at home, she plays early morning pickleball. She says she is tired and overwhelmed.

Well, I reckon.

So, I found accommodation in an old 1600s monastery, right inside the old city walls of Quebec, and there we will stay in our separate monk’s cells–the updated ones–and we will toddle down each morning for a silent breakfast.

Oh, yes, in the best contemplative fashion, no talking at breakfast, and I couldn’t be happier. She’s surprisingly open to it, too. The reviews for the place are outstanding, except for the complainers who didn’t read the fine print. The guy who booked it for a father-son getaway, for example. The party boy who was put out by the quiet hours from ten at night until the next morning.

Some missed the fact that for the traditional rooms the bathrooms are down the hall. I have stayed in monasteries before, so you better believe I knew to check, and we snagged contemporary rooms, with our own baths. We can have a tour of the monastery, but really, the whole place is like a museum, and I look forward to starting each day in silent reflection and walking through stone passages on my way to find poutine and t-shirts.
I plan to buttonhole my friend, too, and see what all this activity is about. It isn’t just that I feel slothful by comparison, but I don’t get a sense she loves it, or even likes all this activity very much. We have another friend who was also on our girls’ trip to Florida and she goes all the time. I mean, all the time and if by sea, all the better. If she could take a cruise ship to St. Louis or Chicago, she would. She’s on a ship right now. She seems to thrive.

So, with luck, Nancy and I will get to poke around Quebec and Montreal, find a maple leaf toque and a Detroit Lions hat for her husband. He’s put in a request. We will probably shop for ourselves, too, and pick up something for our various little ones. And maybe, with the help of serene surroundings and a meditative atmosphere, I can figure out how to make myself get up and get moving and she can figure out how to let herself stop.