A Loyola Retreat

Those of you who know me are probably aware of the fact that I am not exactly the “religious” type. Yes, I went to church camp every summer for ten years, and attended as many retreats as possible during high school. I got Confirmed along with the rest of my class in eighth grade, and I gave stuff up during Lent. But during my sophomore year of high school, a lot of really shitty shit went down. I found myself in the midst of what I still consider to be the most emotionally exhausting (not to mention terrifying) period of my life, lasting until about the beginning of my senior year. Needless to say, it was pretty hard to find God then. Almost immediately following this, during my first visit to SLU, my dad found out he had cancer. I still remember exactly where we were when we got that call: the second floor of Olive-Compton garage, facing Dante’s, on a beautiful October day. He and my mom didn’t tell my brother and sister and me until two weeks later, but the minute he hung up the phone, I knew. Remembering that day and that later conversation still makes me feel like crying. In addition, I’ve always been vaguely “anti-establishment” and really did not appreciate some old man in a red robe who lived in an Italian palace telling me how I should behave. Anyways, the point of all that was to tell you that I just felt like this whole God business was kind of a bust.

But, two weekends ago, I went on a retreat in Loyola, Spain, the hometown of St. Ignatius Loyola. (St. Ignatius founded the Society of Jesus, also known as the Jesuits. SLU is a Jesuit university, and I really like the Jesuit ideal of “Men and Women for Others.”) This trip, and an incident involving a fellow member of SLU’s Class of 2010 kind of changed all that. I finally figured out what the heck I’m doing in life. I finally figured out where I’m supposed to be. And, where I’m supposed to be is exactly where I am. During the retreat, I gave a talk about Ignatian discernment. While writing this talk, I learned a lot about myself and I hope that those at the retreat got as much out of it as I did. But if they didn’t, that’s OK too. Here’s a copy of the talk, should you be interested in reading it.

When I arrived at SLU-Madrid, I (along with the rest of the new visiting students) was given a blue folder containing maps of Madrid, tips on eating tapas, home-stay norms, etc. Also included in this packet was a little yellow Campus Ministry sheet. I’m sure you all know the sheet I’m referring to. On it, you could read what retreats were happening when, when Mass was, all that jazz. Upon deciding to attend the Loyola retreat, I dug out my sheet, filled in my name, email, and cell number and then paused. “Did I want to give a speech or help plan the retreat or play a musical instrument?” the form asked. Another pause. NOOO WAY. I am a retreat-taker, not a retreat-maker, and the idea of speaking in front a group of my peers about religion was the last thing I felt qualified for… except for perhaps the musical instrument part. (Unless Ginny and Michael needed a kazoo player. I won the sixth grade talent show with my kazoo rendition of Johann Strauss’s The Blue Danube.)

About a week later, I got an email from Fr. Reck saying that they really needed more students to present at the retreat.Again I paused before hitting the delete button, but this time the pause was longer. I moved on to my next email, the RED DE SAN LOUIS. Once I got near the bottom, there was a little paragraph about the retreat, followed by an email address to contact if you were interested in helping. This whole “talk at a retreat” thing was not just going to leave me alone. But still, I was almost positive that I absolutely had nothing inspiring to say, no advice to give to people who were looking for a deeper relationship with God. I mean, this is the girl who absolutely REFUSED to go to Mass for two years, the girl who denounced organized religion every time she was asked to give her opinion on spirituality. There was no way that these people wanted to hear what I had to say. I didn’t even know if I DID have anything to say.

But I have a feeling that most of you know how this story ends. If you don’t, then… I guess I really don’t know what to say to you except that somewhere along the line you must have missed the lesson about inference and drawing conclusions.Needless to say, I decided to email Ginny and tell her I was willing to give a talk. But what was I going to talk about? What message was I going to deliver? I reflected on some things for a bit and journaled. Then it just came to me. When I thought about it, Ignatian discernment is a lot like my experience in regards to writing, revising, and finally giving this speech.

So, what is discernment? To me, discernment is like finding the right words that fit in with the message you want to convey. Discernment takes time and reflection. It requires many drafts, and sometimes even drastic revisions. At times, it comes in bursts of inspiration; sometimes it is a tedious task that seems to drag on forever. St. Ignatius himself lay in bed for nine months before he decided to devote his life to God.

Sometimes, discernment is frustrating. You may not ever feel like you have written “the perfect draft.” But that’s OK. With contemplation, you will eventually come to some conclusions. These conclusions may start out as a few words, a few thoughts. Eventually these words and thoughts materialize, whether on paper or in life. Ignatian discernment is a process. It requires constant prayer and reflection. If you never think about what you are going to say, you can never truly develop your message, just as you can never fully discern your call without reflecting on the life you are leading. Sometimes, discernment requires a little bit of peer editing. As Christina said this morning, as a community of faith, we are called to support one another as we attempt to share our message.

Most of all, discernment requires openness. It requires ignoring conventional rules of grammar, embracing the use of sentence fragments, and using personal, hand-picked words to deliver your message. It requires accepting who you are, who you are meant to be, and the actions required to become that person. At times, it may require throwing caution and logic to the wind and emailing mccarthyg@madrid.slu.edu. It requires the freedom to recognize and respond to the invitation of God’s call. And finally, discernment sometimes requires accepting that you may or may not inspire everyone in the room, but also knowing that your message is out there for others to discern. However, just in case the former proves to be true, I did bring my kazoo.

Bland vs Madrid: 1-1

Going out in Madrid is like a sport. It takes practice and dedication. It takes devoted fans cheering you on. It requires proper equipment and there are even rules. And like any other physical activity, sometimes it just kicks your ass. Case in point: last weekend.

I met my friend [Nick] Bergin in Sol. This is parallel to a futbol team’s warm-up before the match: start out slow, stretch your muscles, get pumped. As I confidently walked out of the Metro station, Eye of the Tiger playing opening spot on my mental soundtrack, I was greeted by the throngs of fans pouring into the stadium: Madreleños bustling about the city center. I found Bergin, and we headed to the first bar that offered us free chupitos. We sat near the nearly empty dance floor and nursed our free drinks, while discussing our next move. We decided to meet up with more friends at another bar, so we headed out. Upon our arrival at what we had nicknamed “The Cowboy Bar” (there was a loud Spanish bouncer, wearing a cowboy hat, at the door), we noticed something: Spaniards are really serious about their alcohol intake. Whereas (so I’ve heard), American bartenders usually skimp on the liquor and are liberal with the mixer, Spanish bartenders sometimes forget to add a mixer. At least, that’s what it feels like about 20 minutes after your first drink. This is where the “practice” aspect comes in. Luckily, Bergin and I have got that covered (sorry, Mom). After we grew tired of having to put on a HAZMAT suit to use the restroom (this place was GROSS), we left for Joy, a genuine European discotheque.

Joy was the equivalent to the Main Event; the Big Game, if you will. In typical European fashion, they charged us a ridiculous cover charge after waiting in a ridiculously long line. I also got a yellow card for “yelling” at the stupid lady with the pink clipboard at the door. For the record, I was not yelling. I was trying to make my voice heard above the rest of the other people who were talking loudly in the vicinity. Apparently, this is against the rules of the game. Once we finally got in and checked our coats, this is what we found:

Scantily-clad men, women, he/she’s, she/he’s and more! We made our way out onto the dance floor and started dancing like crazy people. Angela and I met some pretty cute Spanish boys and all was well until I realized I was definitely not fitted with the proper equipment. I had chosen to wear black patent stiletto heels, and they were killing me. The Spanish solution to pain is more alcohol, so naturally I had another drink. I was going to get through this night and make it til 6AM come hell or high water.

A bout an hour and a half later, our new Spanish friends were still at our sides and my feet were still killing me. I needed a timeout and I needed one bad. I had two left, so I took one. I went and sat in the “Reserved” section (no idea how I managed that) and took a breather with Bergin. He was fading fast, and who could blame him? It was past 3:30 and we still had at least another 2 and a half hours until the Metro opened up. Angela and Steve found us a little later and dragged us back out onto the dance floor. When times get rough, turn to your fans. An hour later, I called another timeout and went and got some water. I can’t believe I wore those shoes. It is possibly one of the worst ideas I have ever had… no one was even looking at my feet anyways. It’s like when a player wears a sweatband; I don’t care what is says, but I do care how you play and if you’re going to win or not.

As it turns out, I did not win that night; Madrid did. However, I am convinced that it was not due to my lack of skill. I firmly believe that it was the shoes that did me in. In addition, the weekend before, I managed to stay out until 6:30 and find myself two dates: one British and one French. So take that, Madrid. If that’s not skill, I don’t know what is.

In The Beginning…

…there was a landmass of approximately 30,528 square kilometers, and it was called “Belgium.” Bordering this majestic land, was a kingdom-turned-unitary semi-presidential republic called France, occupying 674,843 square kilometers. And Taylor Spaulding said, “Let there be friends.” And so there were.

Upon arrival in Madrid, I unpacked my belongings, walked around my barrio, and attempted to sleep. The next day, at 9am, I found myself at Saint Louis University – Madrid Campus. Following a four-hour orientation, my friends Clayton and Owen and I hopped on a jet and booked it to Belgium, home of the Belgian Six: waffles, chocolate, frites, beer, mussels, and the Spaulding family. Taylor Spaulding is a good friend of ours from SLU in St. Louis and he and his family live in Casteau, Belgium, near a NATO base, where his dad works. We decided that since we weren’t going on the school-led orientation trips, we’d make one of our own and visit Taylor. This was an excellent decision.

Taylor and his dad picked us up at Charle-Roi airport, about 30 minutes from their house. We went back to the Spauldings’ and had some delicious homemade food and then made plans for the next day. We decided to drive to Versailles, France, home of the famous Palace of Versailles. Here’s a brief history lesson, just in case you’re wondering (thank you Wikipedia):

The Château de Versailles, or simply Versailles, is a royal château in Versailles, France. In English it is often referred to as the Palace of Versailles. When the château was built, Versailles was a country village, but it is now a suburb of Paris. From 1682, when King Louis XIV moved from Paris, until the royal family was forced to return to the capital in 1789, the Court of Versailles was the centre of power in Ancien Régime France. Versailles is therefore famous not only as a building, but as a symbol of the system of absolute monarchy which Louis XIV espoused.

It was pretty awesome and really made me wish I was wearing hoopskirts, a corset, and some white hair powder. After we had gone through the actual palace, we strolled the grounds and eventually settled down for a picnic in Marie Antionette’s personal gardens. We then proceeded to le petit hameau, which was where Marie Antionette went to escape the obnoxious rules of life at the French Court. It consists of what are called her “follies,” several buildings that are meant to replicate a rustic Normandy farm. It was really enjoyable and pictures of most of the palace and grounds can be found at my Flickr account to the right.

After Versailles, we began the three-hour drive back to Casteau. However, Taylor’s mom surprised us and stopped off in Paris! We went to a little cafe and got coffee and I bought some French wine at a market across the street. As we were ordering our coffee, Owen tried to speak with our waiter in Spanish. The look on the waiter’s face was a mixture of disgust and bewilderment. However, it is also possible that is the way the entire French population looks at Americans. Perhaps we’ll never know. On our way out, Mrs. Spaulding again surprised us with a drive ’round the Eiffel Tower, which turned into “let’s get out and do the most obnoxious thing we can…”

Yes, that’s us doing the USA in front of the Frenchest of French things. Holla.

The next day, we went to Mass on base, which was pretty cool, because I had to go through security and I got this neat badge. It made me feel important, and I like feeling important. After Mass, we went to a brunch with several of the other American families because two of the girls were turning 18 and one boy was turning 16. Earlier, I had seen Sam (the 16-year-old) at the after-Mass reception and asked Taylor how old he was. This simple, innocent question somehow got twisted around and the entire Spaulding family – and Owen and Clayton – decided that I was totally scamming on Sam and wanted to be on him. This is wrong on so many levels, particularly because my little brother just turned 16. Gross. In addition to giving me shit for what felt like several hours, everyone decided that I should be Sam’s present. Ummmm, cool… not. I went along with it, because Clayton was also being “given” to one of the girls. I still have no idea how Owen got out of the situation, seeing as there was still one more girl who needed a plaything. So, we show up – Clayton with a bow on his head and my jacket stuffed with yellow tissue paper – and actually had a pretty good time.

After brunch, Mrs. Spaulding drove us to Jubise, where we (barely, we had to run for it) caught a train to Brussels. In Brussels, I saw the coolest architecture I have seen to date:

While we were there, we also got frites, Belgian beer, waffles, and chocolate. Frites are really just french fries, but God forbid you call them that in Europe. They also have all these different sauces you can order with your frites. I decided to be a little adventurous and order barbecue sauce (hey, what can I say? I’m Kansas City born and bred), but this was no ordinary barbecue sauce. It was orange. And strange tasting. The boys were a bit more daring and got Brasil, Andulician, and something else I don’t remember, so I tried a bit of theirs. Again, it was orange and different. We also saw the Mannekin Pis, which is this famous statue of a little boy peeing. It was much smaller than I imagined it, however. As always, I have pictures on Flickr.

Once it got dark and we got tired of walking around, we walked back to the train station and got on the train to go home. Or at least, we thought we got on the train to go home. Turns out the trains run early and we hopped the one that just goes back and forth from Brussels Central to Brussels Midi. We got a conductor who spoke some English to explain how to get on the correct train going to the correct location. So, we got off the train, waited a bit, and then got on a new train. We ended up having to take one going the opposite of where we needed to go and then transferring 45 minutes later. All of us were so exhausted that we just could not stop giggling about what was going on. And then, all of the sudden, I just could not stop crying. I don’t know what it was, but I just kept sobbing and going on about how much I missed Katie and how I hoped she wasn’t freezing in the mountains. And then I started crying about the train. And then I started crying because I was crying and all the passengers were staring at me. And then I cried because it was funny that I was crying. I was a ridiculous, hot, American mess.

Once we finally arrived in Mons, near Casteau, we went home and got in bed. The boys let me sleep in until about noon, then we got some food and went to the airport. Once we landed in Madrid, for some reason I could not stop thinking in French. It was terrible. I even tried to speak to Elena in French. She just laughed and told me to go to bed. Which I did.

Hola, que tal?

Well, here I am. I’ve arrived in one piece and finally beaten jet-lag. The plane over here was quite possibly the largest piece of machinery I have ever seen in my life. It was surprisingly comfortable, if you factor out the screaming child. Yes, my fellow students and I had the pleasure of live in-house music during our seven and a half hour flight. You’ve never lived until you’ve listened to a 17-month-old belt out a high C in an Airbus 340.

We landed in Madrid at about 8am, which is 1am Central time. Terminal 4, which is where Iberia flies in and out, is really cool. It’s got these huge wooden arch-like things in different colors; it’s very modern and crisp. I wish I had taken pictures, but I was so tired and overwhelmed that I didn’t even think about it. We got our baggage and met our host families in the waiting area. Elena’s eldest son, Julio, was there to meet my roommate, Lydia, and I. Thank God he spoke a little English, because my brain pretty much stopped working. I could barely remember any Spanish! I must have been shocked that people actually DO speak Spanish in Spain. And it’s not just Spanish, it’s Catalan Spanish, which is very fast and full of lisps. Dios mio.
From the airport, we drove about 30 minutes to Elena’s apartment in what SLU calls “The Northern Zone.” It’s about a 30 minute commute from campus, including walking to and from the Metro stops. Elena met us in the apartment, and she is such a wonderful woman. She greeted us with “dos besos,” the traditional one kiss on each cheek. It was very European and very awesome. She showed us to our room, which I love. It’s a bit smaller than my dorm room, but we have bunk beds and actual closets instead of big, clunky wardrobes. It’s decorated in yellow, deep turquise, light gray, and cream. However, it is a bit dark… living expenses here in Madrid are astronomical. Madrileños (Madridians) do everything they can to conserve energy, so there’s not a lot of light. We each have a desk lamp and a bedside lamp; enough to get by, but not what we’re used to. There is also a severe drought and water shortage in Madrid. We are limited to ten minutes of water use a day, plus things like washing our hands after using the restroom and brushing our teeth. I’m trying my best to follow the rules, because I read about the water shortage and it truly is serious. There are several towns north of Madrid that are completely out of water and have to have it shipped in.

Our household consists of what I call 5 “full-timers” and 2 “part-timers.” Elena, Jose (Elena’s husband), Javier (Elena and Jose’s son), Lydia, and I are the full-timers and Julio and Javier (Elena’s grandchildren) are the part-timers. Jose works during the day and is in sales, but I don’t know what type. Javier lives across the hall from our room and is gone during the day; he’s in his mid-twenties to early-thirties; I can’t really tell. Lydia is my roommate and she’s from Tennessee. She goes to Butler in Indianapolis where she’s a Tri-Delt and a history/education major. She’s very easy to get along with and I look forward to getting to know her better. I am me, and if you don’t know me by now, one has to wonder what you’re doing here. Julio is the other Julio’s son; he comes over during the day while his parents are at work. He’s 15 months old and absolutely adorable. He’s got the biggest brown eyes I’ve ever seen and is just a ball of fun. He’s learning how to talk, so he runs around shouting “¡Hola, hola, hola chicas! Javier is about 8 or 9, and comes over after school. I’ve only seen him twice, and he was a bit shy both times, so I don’t know much about him. Lydia and I have our room at the end of the hall, and we have our own bathroom with a sink and shower. It’s up the hall on the opposite side. There is a kitchen with all the things you would expect in a kitchen, plus one: a washing machine. It’s off in the corner, though, and not very noticeable. Off of the kitchen is a sitting room with some couches. Next to our bathroom is a bedroom, then something else that I haven’t explored, then Javier’s room. Then inbetween our room and his is the family bathroom, with a tub, shower, and sink. Then there’s our room, then the little boys’ playroom, with a bed. Then there’s another room, but I don’t know what it is. And that, my friends, is our fifth-floor piso. I will try and take some pictures soon.

It’s midnight here, and I should probably get to bed. Lydia and I are waking up early to go to Corte Inglés to buy some things that we need for our room (hangers, push-lights, a hair straitener, etc.). It’s a huge department store that is like Macy’s, Target, and Wal-Mart all rolled into one, big, daunting, Spanish-only jungle. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Oh, and I’ll also update you on my Versailles/Paris/Brussels trip soon. I figured y’all wouldn’t want to read a million pages in one sitting, so I’ve been kind enough to spare you. Don’t thank me, just send money.

…Kidding! (sort of.)