I would be lying if I said I’m not secretly delighted. When I realise that I’ve locked myself out of my room, with its fresh linen bedsheets, I think of the tales I can tell. I am at a monastery after all, and you really can’t get more monk-like than this — a night of sleeping on the cold, hard public bathroom floor.
This is my second night at New Norcia — a world of Gregorian chants led by sandal-wearing monks where abandoned schoolhouses are held together by faded bricks.
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