Hotel conversations

Oh and have a nice life.

Last night we talked, the young woman with a mane of dreadlocks so elegantly spun, in a stylish bun, and I. Her carefully spoken English was more than good enough for us to chat a little across the tables.

I had imagined her an artist, a costume designer for a theatre or a digital nomad working in an exciting IT start up. But no. Of all the employers I could have imagined I would never have come up with the youth movement of the Catholic church.

I tried not to baulk.

The beads in her dreadlocks glittered in the evening lights as she explained. She was also a paraglider with her own kite or wings, whatever you call it. Now that’s more like it. Later she put her hand over an embarrassed smile. She couldn’t believe that after five years she still worked for an institution that is repeatedly in the headlines.

And neither could I.

She studied philosophy, was brought up in Germany to Polish parents and grew up believing being Catholic in northern Germany was normal, studied five world religions in detail and now was on holiday because her boss had told her she was going to need it before her promotion.

Maybe it’s not so strange, maybe young, energetic, funky looking women will do well in a church needing to clean up its act.

Her new job was hanging a bit in the balance. What was beyond doubt was that she had worked her heart out and deserved a break. She said they were not sure if a priest would come to replace the one who had just left as there is a shortage of people entering the church.

For obvious reasons.

That said, she’d just chaperoned for two weeks, her group of sixty adults at a huge annual gathering of one and a half million Catholics in Portugal from all over the world. We calculated that that was about 5000 planes worth of believers.

Of course my mind splinters off, envisioning the thousands of hail Marys uttered on landing.

Now she’s gone. Back to her boyfriend who couldn’t get the time off. Thank goodness I never tried matchmaking!

The hotel is full so someone new will be in her room, with clean sparkling white linens and no trace of the previous occupier. Erased. She left before dawn, happily sunburnt and missed the rain.

reflections on shifting sand