The Monk and I

Don’t tell me I’m sitting next to the priest…

I could see his head bobbing above the length of blue seats, just visible down the narrow aisle. My stomach sank.

It was my third flight in four days, the last before a much needed week off leading into Labor Day. I’d noticed him earlier in the waiting area, a tall man in a clerical collar doddering about the counter with a printed boarding pass and a garment bag. He had a pleasant demeanor and pre-boarded the plane along with the other passengers who could use the extra time.

As my row approached, I tried to ignore my mounting judgement. Oh God, please don’t let him be next to me..

He smiled up at me as I stopped next to him and placed my bags overhead. I sat down, nodded hello, and burrowed into my phone.

Now, contrary to my career path - which requires frequent travel - I don't love flying. It's claustrophobic, panic inducing, and off-putting. But traveling alone is a unique comfort. There’s nowhere to be, just various stages of waiting; waiting to board, to depart, to descend and deplane. One could sit for hours, anonymous, happy as a clam. Pleasantries and nominal self-awareness are the few requirements of civility. There's no real reason to make conversation on a plane.

Seated next to the reverend, I told myself there’s nothing to worry about; he’s a man just like any other. Yes, this devout mountain of a man stuffed into the middle seat next to me is just a normal person. Why wouldn’t he plan for better seating? At least something with more leg room. We must be two of the tallest people on this plane. Dread swirled within me. I tried to ignore both him and the constant flow of people flooding in to fill the plane. Time to focus inward, to the prior activity on my phone, and remove myself from this reality.

Oh my God!

Startled, I locked my screen with an urgency that couldn’t be ignored and looked around to see if anyone had noticed.

I can’t watch this next to a priest!

Trailers are typically my solace on a plane, an easy way to disassociate without doom scrolling. But not today. At that moment, my phone was strobing red and black with bloody, Satanic rhetoric.

Ok then, no phone. I squirmed in my seat, my eyes glued to the oncoming passengers in a growing hysteria. How can I relax next to this man?

Just sit back and relax, I told myself. You’ll be home before you know it. About a minute passed before I gave up and reached for my bag, searching for anything to keep time moving. All I could find was a book about a house that drives people to suicide. Marvelous.

===

As is often the case with travel, what feels never ending often passes quickly. Lucky for me, I dozed off with little notice of what had me in such a tizzy at the top of the flight. I awoke to our descent, pleasantly surprised at how much time had passed, and felt foolish over my initial anxiety.

When the seatbelt light turned off, I stood to grab my things and saw the garment bag in the overhead.

Is this yours? I asked, holding the item towards him.

Good for me, I thought, treating him just like a normal person. Look how friendly I can be, hoping the gesture would atone for my preliminary judgements. He smiled and took the bag, which opened the floodgates.

“And where are you headed? Is Detroit your final stop?”

I smiled back, kicking myself for having allowed this obvious segue to conversation. I should have known better, I thought. At least it’s happening now and not three hours ago.

“Yeah, this is it. I’ll stay in Detroit. You?”

“Oh, just a layover here. I’m headed to Pittsburgh.”

I paused, surprised.

“Pittsburgh, really! That’s where I live. I split my time between here and there.”

“Oh, how wonderful! I live and work at one of the colleges just outside of the city. Saint…Saint… something.”

“Saint Vincent?” I asked, familiar with the Catholic school where the Steelers hold training camp each year. “I was on a job earlier this year with an artist named St. Vincent.”

He lit up.

“That’s the one! Are you a musician?”

“No, but I work in music, behind the scenes.” I paused, having to retract the statement.

“Well, I should say I work in entertainment. I do live production and usually tour with bands, but right now I’m with a comedian.”

“A comedian? Oh, how exciting! Who is it? My wife and I used to host comedians all the time. We always had parties at our house in Hollywood. Joan Rivers would come by a lot.”

Did he say wife? Parties in Hollywood? My jaw must have dropped to the floor. I stared at him, utterly bewildered, and didn’t even notice when it was our turn to deplane. Fumbling with my bags, I rushed ahead to keep the line moving, turning back every few steps to make sure he was still there.

“So, you.. You lived in Hollywood?” I called back on the jetway, refusing to allow his last statement to be the end of our interaction. “I lived in LA for a few years too, around 2008.”

As we walked together, he told me he’d been an entertainment lawyer in the 70s, that he and his wife threw wild parties at their home in the Hollywood Hills and everyone was there. That was before they had children; three daughters, all grown now, who live in San Diego.

Kids, a wife, parties with dazzling celebrities? Maybe he’s lying, I wondered briefly, but no, that didn’t fit. There’s got to be so much more to this story. How did he get from there to here?

Upon reaching the terminal, we simply shook hands and wished each other good luck, then walked in opposite directions. The interaction left me stunned. I felt electrified, despite my spinning thoughts and slight shame at my initial avoidance. How quick we are to dismiss the beauty of the human spirit.

Then I stopped in my tracks. We hadn’t even exchanged names let alone information. How stupid of me, I thought, kicking myself as I left the terminal.

Days later, I would realize that couldn’t be the end of it. Something had to be done.

===

Over the following days, I decided there was no choice - I must find this priest. The college’s website led me to the Saint Vincent Archabbey, a Benedictine monastery where over 150 monks currently live.

Is the priest a monk? I wondered, realizing with mild embarrassment that I didn’t know the difference. Despite a wholly religious upbringing, I am deeply unfamiliar with formalities of the Catholic church. I don’t even know how to do the sign of the cross properly.

Some monks teach as professors and work in the offices around campus, so he could be listed somewhere as a faculty member. With no name or subject to work from, I spent hours pouring over the 85 categories broken out in the Faculty & Staff directory. I could dismiss some categories without hesitation—Dining, Infirmary, Finance, and Administration—but nothing else stood out.

Let's see, I thought. He used to be a lawyer; maybe he teaches in the law program? Perhaps theology, or seminar academics? To my dismay, I made zero progress as none of the website’s listings included photos. I paused, stumped among the thousands of listings, then a lightbulb went off.

On Wednesday, August 28, 2024 at 9:41am, I emailed the school director of public relations. They’d have no reason to respond to me, but if anyone could help me find the man I was looking for, this would be the department.

To my delight, he replied a few hours later, a short but wildly informative missive. He also sent his resume, which only provided more questions than answers.

Before the age of 16, he’d dined in the private quarters of the White House and enjoyed lunch with the Pope in his summer mansion outside of Rome. In the 70s, he owned and operated a chain of donut shops along the western coast. He and his wife, over the years, owned several restaurants in LA, a real estate and mortgage company, and a full-service travel agency once noted as the largest retailer in North America for American Airlines. The couple owned and operated a hotel in Austria. Upon finishing law school, he worked closely with the creator of Survivor, along with renowned corporations such as Disney and CNN. Business, entertainment, food and travel - the intriguing man had done it all.

His name is Fr Curtis Bonaventure, which means "good trip". In the email, he pressed me to consider my own journey, noting the unexpected parallels between the two of us.

“About your particular inspiration about a quiet and simple stranger, yet a peculiarly engaging airplane mate, don’t you wonder about your own peculiar path ahead?”

I’ve always felt a calling toward the road less traveled, unconventional in decision making and process. An early love for music, writing and photography has taken me beyond my wildest dreams to all corners of the world. Though far from perfect, my unorthodox path has paid out in spades, offering a life of brazen freedom that my younger self could only dream of.

How did southern California shape our lives, this young man in 1972 versus a girl fresh out of high school in the early 2000s? What of my own life took me from point A to point B, and what on earth could that mean for what’s ahead?

Having led many lives myself, I felt an urgent need to learn more. I had to see what the monastery could offer day to day, how these peculiar men choose to exist. How could someone with so much experience, so much movement and action throughout his life, succumb to the confinements of a linear life of explicit simplicity? It’s difficult to fathom. The idea alone sounds to me like a death sentence. Why would he choose this, after experiencing so much of the world and what it has to offer?

We met for dinner in Pittsburgh in the fall of 2024 and planned to visit during my time off the following February. An email from September outlined the specifics:

“Under the ancient Benedictine Rule, any guest at the monastery must be treated like Christ... so you get a free room and board during your stay... for three days, after which you will be assigned a job! Weeding is the most popular job. However, do not expect that the room nor the food will reach the level that you generally enjoy. But it will be new, a very new experience for you!?”

Maybe life is simpler than I’ve made it out to be, I thought. Time to find out.