Free All You Get Is Me by Yvonne Prinz Page A

her.”
    Darth Vader dangles from the rearview mirror, reassuring me. Forest backs out of the parking space and heads toward our farm.
    “So, where to, country girl?”
    “Please don’t call me that.” I glare at him. “I’ve lived in the city most of my life and it wasn’t my idea to move here.”
    “Okay. Sorry. Where to?”
    “Well, I had something planned for this afternoon but you can come along if you like.”
    “Okay. Tell me where to go.”
    Could it really be this easy? You spend hours daydreaming about someone and then suddenly you’re driving down the road with him, going somewhere together, like you’ve known each other for years. I tell him to turn right at the next corner and he cranks the giant steering wheel like he’s turning a river barge. We drive down a narrow road for about five miles and I point to the side of the road and tell him to pull over next to a little farm stand. We get out of the car and walk down an unmarked lane with lush stalks of twelve-foot bamboo growing on either side. Forest never once asks me where we’re going. He walks silently next to me. I like that about him. We eventually come to a clearing and to the right of us two Buddhist monks in orange robes are bent over, tending a terraced vegetable garden built into the hillside. Their persimmon-colored robes contrast beautifully with the rich green of the garden and I stop and take a couple of shots with my camera, which is loaded with color film today. The monks see us and wave. I wave back. From this far away, I can’t tell who they are because they all have the same shaved heads and even the old monks carry themselves like young men.
    “They don’t mind?” asks Forest.
    “No. That’s the thing about them. They don’t mind anything as long as you respect them.”
    “Cool.”
    We continue on, veering off on a narrow gravel path that leads through a perfectly tended oriental flower garden. We cross over a wooden bridge with a koi pond underneath it. The big orange-and-black-speckled fish surface with their mouths open like baby sparrows. The monastery is quiet except for the sound of metal wind chimes that make a resonant musical sound, each tube a different note, not unlike the sound of chanting. A monk is sitting cross-legged on a wooden bench up ahead. He’s reading a book. His sandals sit on the ground in front of him. He looks up and smiles.
    “Hello.”
    We both say hello and carry on past a gazebo. The three-legged dog is napping on the cool floor inside it. He raises his head for a second, checking us out, and then goes back to his nap. Past the gazebo, the trail leads to a sparse dining room with a big kitchen, and then on to separate little residences for the monks and then the grand finale, a beautiful ornate temple where the monks pray and meditate. We pass by the back door of the kitchen, which is propped open with a stone. There are a couple of young monks baking bread. The aroma is intoxicating. Two of them stand across from each other, punching dough down on a big metal-topped island. When they see us, they bow their heads slightly in greeting and one of them beckons me over. He grabs a heavy serrated knife and cuts a couple of slices off a loaf that sits cooling on a rolling rack next to the island. He hands them to me, smiling. I nod my head in thanks and take the soft, moist slices. I hand one to Forest. He takes a bite.
    “Well, that is about the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
    I smile. “Isn’t it? You can buy it at the grocery store in town, you know.”
    “Wow. This bread could change a person’s life.”
    We walk along the path until we come to a bench that overlooks the property with the temple off to the right. Somehow, even on the hottest days, it feels cool here.
    “You wanna sit?” I ask.
    “Sure. Is it okay?”
    “Yup. Like I said. They don’t mind. I’ve been coming here for a year and a half.”
    “This is the most peaceful place on earth,” Forest says, sitting