The Unexpected Virtues of For-profit Churches

by Emmet D'Alton (Ireland)

I didn't expect to find Ireland

While waiting in line at a restaurant, a friend was griping to me about the people on her Instagram sharing 'inspirational' stories about how travel has changed their lives, opened their minds, enlarged their perspectives, etc. "Oh, you and four of your friends spent three weeks in an AirBnB in Greece? That's not 'travelling', you just took a holiday; no wonder you feel so damned great." I couldn't have agreed more. The pair of us being philosophy majors, I suggested we put some thoughts on paper on the 'philosophy of travel', what makes travelling travelling, and not simply holiday-making. Despite the obvious urgent need for such a publication, the conversation moved along and this much-needed document never materialised. The question lingered in my mind, though, and brought me back to the first trip I took abroad without my family. It had been a school trip to Italy with my history class. It started with two nights in Naples, a stop-off in Amalfi, and then turning around to Rome (I know: the wrong way to do that, but I didn't organise the trip). By the time we got to Amalfi, after two nights in a room with five other teenage boys, only two of whom I would have called friends, I was getting well and truly sick of my classmates. I can't recommend the Amalfi coast enough, by the way. The coastline drive from Naples to Amalfi is an exquisite treat for anyone who enjoys the Mediterranean at its bluest; and while wandering the classically picturesque town of Amalfi I got a Kit-kat gelato that still pops up in my most [REDACTED] dreams. These wonderful Italian comforts, though, couldn't make up for the fact that I was craving some alone time. So, I went into a church. It had been partly converted into a museum, so there was a small charge to get in. Here I knew I wouldn't be followed. It was as if capitalism and Catholicism were conspiring to create a hideaway utterly unappealing to liberal teenagers. The small church was itself beautiful, and contained lovely paintings, artefacts, even a suit of armour if I remember correctly. It did not change my life, nor did it broaden my perspective, or do anything else to me that I would type over a generic starry background. To date, though, it is the only time I ever seriously prayed. At the time I had been very depressed. I was - and remain - an atheist, as all my friends were, and turning to God had never seemed a promising option. But, away from anyone I knew, in a small, beautiful Italian church, I made a small donation, lit a candle, and prayed for strength, and hope. When I woke up that morning I had not expected to find myself praying later that day; when the class went to St. Pete's in Rome and found that Pope Francis was there for a birthday celebration - which the teachers organising the trip had somehow failed to realise would be happening - I felt no Holy Ghost moving in me. What I still think about is rather the chance I was given to put on a new identity for a few minutes; not to 'find myself' (which has still never been satisfactorily defined to me) but to turn myself over in a new light. When I came back to my friends they all recognised me, none remarked on 'something different' about me, as there probably wasn't; but it felt like whatever exhausted artist was sculpting my mind, my personality, had returned and added finishing detail to a portion of the work that almost no one would ever see. What travel and holiday obviously have in common is a temporary freedom from our jobs, our neighbours, our typical environments; a subtler distinction comes, I think, in the form of our expectations from each. A holiday is not meant to be surprising (in fact, one of the primary benefits is that no nasty surprises will come up). Travel, though, requires volatility, and the capacity to be surprised. Going even halfway around the world with your friends can still be just a holiday; but down a side-street on your own an adventure.