Monastery Soup for the Wandering Soul

Well, I found it. Tucked into a wind-swept Syrian mountainside lies the Deir Mar Musa monastery. I was largely unaware of what was waiting for me at the monastery as I only had heard of it through word of mouth by another traveler. Not having voluntarily gone on a spiritual retreat since the sleep deprived mental tampering I received at KAIROS in high school, I was anxious to get off the grid for a few days and do some inner reflecting, however scary that may be. After a half-day of bus traveling, I was placed at the bottom of a hill by a taxi, with the monastery looming quite a bit higher. The hike up with a full pack was a bit much and I was wondering how they would react to unannounced visitors, especially those hoping to stay a few days. I was fully planning on using the line that I overhead an Evangelical traveler tell another in Jerusalem: "I was SENT." By the Man, I presume.

Once arrived, they first person I saw was a dreadlocked Frenchman playing a guitar on the rock path by the monastery. He welcomed me and told me to make myself at home. And so started my monastic existence that would last for the next 4 days.
Run by an Italian Jesuit, the monastery has become quite a famous place as it has evolved into a globally known center for inter-faith dialogue between Christains and Muslims. It allows all visitors to stay as long as they wish, with only the expectation that they occasionally help out in the kitchen or in projects around the grounds. During my stay, there was a good mix of Europeans, mostly French, who were all there for various reasons. The only other native English speaker was an Aussie, whose intentions there was on par with mine--a bit of reflective relaxing and most importantly, living cheaply. Meals were a social affair and broke up the monotony of the endless hours of reading, writing, or however you chose to spend your time. The food was basic but varied and nourishing and provided a nice change to my subsistence only diet of recent. The hiking around the monastery was nice and there were a series of caves in the mountainside for praying, meditating, animal sacrificing--whatever you needed to tap that inner spirit. As for me, I got my read on, about three books in as many days. The monastary had an incredible cave-like library, where amazingly enough I found an autobiography written by one of Mick Jagger's conquests, Marianne Faithful. Man, that women got around. It was funny because whoever left the book in the library inscribed it with a warning to all female sinners...

A stand-out character at the monastery was my Russian roomate, whose monosyllable answers/replies kept me cracking up. "Eat." "Pray." "Smoke." In a rare moment of articulation he stated one of the more profound things I heard spoken at the monastery: "In Russia, we say that someone who doesn't smoke or drink is dead person with good body." I am pretty sure he said this after meditating for 12 hours solid, so you know it was divinely inspired.
After 4 days, I felt enough was enough and heard my inner voice calling me back to the road. So I packed up, hiked an hour to the road and hitched a ride to the main highway. A fellow Syrian hitcher helped me navigate the next series of buses, adamantly paying for all. So kind, that it tripped my radar and made me contemplate any possibility for dubious intentions. Turned out to be just another gesture of good-will to a foreign guest, which seems to be an emerging theme of my middle eastern trek.
Made a pit stop at the famous Crac Des Chevalier, a crusader castle, that has inspired writers like Paul Theroux to write about its magnificence and boyhood fantasy charm. Ran around its cave-like tunnels for an hour, took pictures for you and darted. I had a date with the border.
Hopped in a mini-bus packed with people and made the cross into Lebanon. It made geographic sense (i will return to Syria to visit more and then head to Turkey). Plus Lebanese food is just what the doctor ordered for me. I am also trying to find any truth to the reply made by my good friend, Chris Clarkson (who is also half-Lebanese), who said when I told him about my visit to his motherland: "I think they now call it 'Don't go there land'." Well, only one way to find out.

Oh yeah, and have a great Thanksgiving.

Missing the tryptophan coma,

Brian