TW // suicide, sexual assault
“I want to die on Rhodes.”
We’re sitting on Theologos beach. The waves are crashing against the shore, and the kite surfers are bobbing and dancing in the distance.
I’d wanted to spend today alone. Had longed for it, actually: to feel no pressure to be on, to be in silence, to process what’s been on my mind lately. But this man, Raymond— he of the carrots of last night’s dinner—caught me on my way out of the retreat centre.
“You’re going to the beach!” Raymond exclaimed. “Could I join you?”
I tried, politely, to put him off.
“I’m going to see the temple of Apollo first. Maybe I’ll see you there later?”
“Oh I haven’t seen that yet, either! Would it be okay if I came along?”
Weirdly, a little voice inside said, “Yes.”
Raymond chatted away as we walked through the village to the temple, which turned out to be a collection of rocky stumps and the base of one column. As we poked around, I babbled nerdily away about my Apollo/Tarot knowledge, wondering inwardly if I’d made the right decision. We made our way to the beach, and he kept talking.
Raymond was born in Romania, and (like me) has one Hungarian parent. He used to lead bike tours all over Europe. He has a teenaged daughter he hasn’t seen, for various complicated reasons, in 12 years. He also recently came out of a 12-year depression.
“What got you out of it?” I asked.
A suicide attempt, he tells me.
“When I woke up at the hospital,” he explains, “the nurse asked me what was on my bucket list. I said I wanted to fish, see my daughter again, and go to Rhodes. She said, "‘Then go do that.’”
So Raymond packed up his fishing gear and tent and took himself to the Danube Delta. Through a full winter, he camped and he fished. Through -14 degree cold. Through thunderstorms that brought ancient trees crashing down around him in the night. Through coming face to face with a 300-pound wild pig with spiralled tusks.
Having survived that, he packed up everything he owned, and came to Rhodes.
Less than a week later, he found Drolma Ling. Now he volunteers there and lives on the property.
“It’s like it was meant to be,” he says.
Then adds, not for the first time, “Please just tell me to shut up any time you want quiet.”
I promise that I will.
Raymond has survived three suicide attempts and two strokes in total. I tell him that if he were a Bond film, it would be called “The Man Who Wouldn’t Die”. He laughs.
“I can’t die until I see my daughter again,” he says. “So I will have to leave Rhodes at least once before. Then I will be ready.”
He says it so acceptingly, as if he were talking about returning a library book.
He shares, too, that someone very dear to him has experienced a Very Bad Thing.
That’s the thing about retreat centres: there isn’t a lot of small talk.
We hike back up the hill as the sun sets. I’d planned to eat out at one of the local restaurants—despite everything, I love and miss Greek food. But all of them are still closed for the season.
So Raymond enthusiastically offers to share his dinner.
“You know those carrots you tried yesterday? I cut them up like french fries, and then fry them in oil!”
I wrinkle my nose, before remembering something my meditation teacher, in a rarely commanding moment, told me: When you’re at a retreat centre, you eat what you’re offered.
We stop at the supermarket, where they greet us like family. I buy tzatziki and taramosalata, and Raymond buys beer and cola, which, he explains as we make our way up the hill, he mixes and drinks together. I stare at him, certain he’s joking.
“Really! I used to drink one before evening bike rids up Italian and Swiss mountains!”
Back at the centre, as we prepare a feast, he offers me a small glass. We eat outside, surrounded by all five of the centre’s cats.
And that’s it.
There are no big or medium-sized adventures today. I’m so okay with that. I just want to sit in the quiet of the night, and the continued energetic hug of this land with its rippling prayer flags and twinkling night sky. And the kindness and vulnerability of people like Raymond.
I had forgotten often I meet people like him at places like this. People with whom I don’t feel like I have to wear my space suit. And how, in this places, with these kinds of people, there’s more joy and more intention in almost everything you do. Even making food. Even when that food is deep-fried carrots and cola-beer.
Both of which, I can tell you right now, are delicious.
I love the gourmet fried carrots and especially the touching story you tell about Raymond. There is alot to learn in this story. Xo
Very moved by your encounter with Raymond.