AWCH The Beautiful Buddhists of Bordeaux

If you ask me, everything tastes better in France. Especially in summer. Peach juices dribbling down your chin, sexy red tomatoes, earthy lettuce, creamy butter. Then there’s the lilt of the language – a sing-song-y bonjours at the boulangerie, those pursed Gallic lips pronouncing impossible sounds like Fruooo-eeee for plain old fruit. I dream about stuff like this.

So when a friend urged me to check out Plum Village, a drop-dead-gorgeous Buddhist retreat site in southwestern France near Bordeaux, I promptly went online (www.plumvillage.org) and signed up for a week in July.

Not that I'm a Buddhist or anything. I do like to meditate occasionally; I go to yoga classes three times a week and figured that seven days of mindfulness, practiced with some spiritually evolved people couldn’t hurt. And the cost per week? Anywhere from 216-310 euros p.p. for food and shelter (many bring kids and camp out – ages 6 to 15 are welcome) along with bracing Dharma lectures by the famous Vietnamese monk, poet, spiritual leader and peace activist Thich Nhat Hanh. I didn’t know about him when I signed up, but have learned that everyone from Martin Luther King to Thomas Merton has been singing his praises for over 30 years. He’s written close to 50 books.

My Parisian friends thought the notion of a Buddhist retreat not only typically American, but cause for hilarity. "No smoking? No wine? No sex? Come now!" “Well," I offered,”a chaste week sounds really interesting.” Then they really let me have it. I had showed them the printed list of items I was required to bring: flashlight, mosquito netting, earphones for translations, pillows, sheets, towels, sleeping bag, alarm clock, ear plugs, eye mask, insect repellent. “Good God! They should be paying you to go there!”

I took the TGV from Paris to Bordeaux, then hopped a local train to Ste. Foy La Grande, along with a polite bunch of Nordic types, some of them clutching adorable blonde tots, and nearly all hauling sleek looking camping gear. To my somewhat embarrassed relief, I didn’t spot any obvious lost souls or workshop groupies. At the tiny station a stunning Vietnamese nun greeted us. With her shaved head and gleaming smile, dressed in a crisp brown robe over flowing trousers, she directed us toward our van. She appeared to be gliding a couple of inches off the ground.

Nevertheless, when the good sister got behind the wheel, she gunned it. And we took off, flying across the lush French countryside. Here was the France I loved – hills dotted with vineyards and field upon field of dazzling yellow sunflowers. No one in the van uttered a word. I quickly learned that we had already entered the realm of “noble silence,” retreat protocol I would know well over the next few days. Within an hour we pulled up to a tumble of low-slung stone and timbered buildings.

I was assigned a room in a renovated 200-year-old farmhouse dorm (in one of Plum Village's three hamlets, where nearly 400 of us dwelled). I had two roommates: a Brit social worker from Newcastle, who, like me, had never been on a Buddhist retreat. The other, a teacher and old 60’s radical from Hamburg, who was earnestly digging in for her second two-week stay. Our days were filled with activity, which left little time for brooding. We'd wake up at 5 am, sit in meditation from 5:30 to 6, then fall in for a silent breakfast from 6:30 till 7:30. Every day we were treated to fresh baguettes, local cheeses, yogurt, porridge with nuts and dried fruits. Then we either hiked or hitched a ride in one of the vans to another hamlet for one of the three-hour Dharma talks given by Thich Nhat Hanh. After that there was time for more meditation. At one o’clock, we were served a bountiful lunch, all vegetarian, but prepared Vietnamese style – good and spicy – homemade soups, elaborate salads, pasta, with plenty of tempeh and tofu as protein to keep us energized. Afternoons were set aside for work meditations. I was assigned “chopping vegetables” duty, a whole lot better, I discovered, than garbage detail or cleaning bathrooms. We had an hour or so of free time to lie around in a hammock, browse through the gift shop, wash our clothes (by hand), take a stroll, nap, whatever.

Dinner (a lighter version of lunch) was served at six and then we broke into small groups for Dharma discussions. Ours had 15 women and one man, a television producer from Zurich. Ages ranged from 25 to 70 and we came from all over – New York, Atlanta, Amsterdam, London, Berlin, Jerusalem. The discussions were sort of low-key group therapy sessions, where we’d discuss our spiritual practice (if any), or a topic such as anger management; mostly there was talk about love – both sacred and profane. Always a sweet-faced nun sat there as a monitor, ready to offer the Buddhist perspective.

So what did I get out of all this? Well, intellectual stimulation and a giant heart massage, for sure. I wasn’t the only one moved by Thich Nhat Hanh’s three-hour Dharma talks. I could look around at any point in the lectures to see about 399 others sitting on chairs under giant canopies (or stretched out on the grass) in rapt silence.

I left after a week a quieter, happier human being. I was slowing down, smiling, paying attention more. Think of it. All I had to do was to remember to breathe.