I was at a Mexican restaurant the other day (where I faced a huge amount of peer pressure to do a shot of tequila, which I've never done--I resisted and used all my teenage skills to ensure that I was true to me, not being a follower) and just as I was diving headfirst into my guacamole, I noticed a monk about to sit down at the table next to us. At first it didn't register, and I was all, hey, a monk. But then after a moment I was all, what the fuck? Monks are real? I mean, he was wearing a rope belt and a long maroon robe or dress or whatever you call the shapeless monk garment and everything. And then I was all, monks eat Mexican food? I just don't know that I've ever thought of chimichangas as very ascetic or cloistered. Or maybe the restaurant was a secret refectory in another time dimension. Another thing was that we were there after vespers, and it seems to me like this monk was totally slacking on the praying.
I don't begrudge any monk a little time out on the town, or being all deviant with eating Mexican food. I support it, in fact, and I hope he had the tilapia because it was excellent. But it was weird when suddenly my evening out went all Name of the Rose. Which is actually a really good book. Way better than Baudolino.
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