Chapter 1

The Hobby

It was a rainy autumn morning, and the small motorboat heavily plowed its way. The fragments of waves that shattered into the sides of the boat, and the cold wind that blew onboard, brought the few passengers to huddle in the back around a small table that stood near the machine room. The chilly morning weather reflected on the passengers a silent atmosphere, where each huddled in his corner, immersed in reflection and little speech. There were three monks with full beard-and-hair, dressed in their black robes; a merchant from Athens, whose unshaven face expressed a deep concern; a Catholic priest of Russian descent, dressed as a civilian; and me.

The boat sailed to Athos, a monks’ republic founded about 1,000 years ago on the Chalkidiki Peninsula in northeastern Greece. It has several dozen monasteries dedicated to men who decided to devote their lives to God’s work, and since its founding no woman has set foot in it. Each person, of the few passengers on the boat, had a special purpose in Athos. The monks returned to their monasteries from shopping in the city; the Athenian merchant went there for communion and prayer in one of the monasteries; the Catholic priest, who spoke English with a heavy Russian accent and was probably neither a priest nor a Catholic, went to peruse ancient manuscripts found in the monastery libraries; and I went there to see and try to understand, why people decide to devote their entire lives to prayer.

At the end of the cruise, which lasted several hours, we arrived at the pier, which served as a port. An old bus, which squirted down the narrow roads, brought us to the city of Kariai, which is the administrative center for all monasteries in Athos. After presenting a special license, which I received in Athens, I was given a large certificate, which credits me for visiting every monastery, and receiving food with a place to stay. I chose to visit and stay in the two Russian monasteries on the peninsula.

I arrived in the early afternoon at the first monastery, near Kariai, and went into a big courtyard surrounded by buildings. From a far distance I saw a tall monk, about 80 years old, crossing in wide, fast, steps across the courtyard. I went towards him, apologized for the disturbance, and asked him in Russian if I could visit the monastery church. He was happy to know that I was from Israel, because when he was young, he spent several years in a Russian monastery in Jerusalem. He regretted that he was not available to show me the church but promised to send the boy to open it so that I could visit it. After walking around the yard for about ten minutes, I saw an old monk limping towards the church. I did not pay attention to him as I was waiting for the boy who was supposed to arrive. But the old man approached me and asked me if I was the one who wanted to visit the church. I was surprised to see a boy about 70 years old, but apparently the time at Athos stands still. The first monk I met had been in the monastery for 50 years, and the “boy,” who was about ten years younger than him, had been in the monastery for only 45 years, and had been a teenager ever since.

The church was impressively developed in its paintings and decorations, but I stayed there only for a short time, because I rushed to the gre