Despite perhaps glaring evidence to the contrary (lounging about the home for over 2 years), I’m not much of a homemaker. Oh I can tackle toilet cleaning like it’s a gold medal event, but the rest of it remains beyond my grasp. A woman’s place is in the revolution I always say, and in our house there’s a corollary for a man’s place: the produce aisle. He who cooks has to get the groceries.
But every now and then, I tag along. When you don’t have to worry yourself with melon thumping and bread squeezing, you have time to have a look around at the coming and goings of people, an interesting pastime for foreigner like me. Not long ago, I was intrigued by some unexpected shoppers: monks.
Perched high above Vevey is a Buddhist monastery, and for some reason I was surprised to see the faithful in the aisles of the local Migros chain store (as opposed to their food magically appearing by meditating really hard). They were all robes and smiles and shaven heads, and I found myself following one of them—one could say stalking, I say casually observing. I figured if I could just see what they were buying, I could duplicate the purchases and eat my way to inner peace. Continue reading “Eat, Pray, Text” »