Banana Seats are taken by choice and chance
One personal routine I maintain at the outset of every Manresa retreat recently led me to a new understanding of the meaning of what a "banana seat" is. For those readers who are not familiar with the beginning of a Manresa retreat, allow me to set the scene.
Most retreatants arrive at Manresa some time around 6:00 PM and go to the library for check-in and room assignments. At that point, since the silent retreat has not yet begun, many men greet others from their own parish and take time to meet a few retreatants from other parishes. Then, after dinner, some time around 7:30, although the silence of the retreat does not begin until the presentation of the first of 11 spiritual exercises at 8:30, many men go off on their own to unpack, to pray, and to otherwise prepare for their retreat. This is where my story begins. Every year on retreat, in the brief period between dinner and the first spiritual exercise, I go to the library and write post cards to my wife, my children, and my mother. In these postcards I open my heart and tell them what they mean to me, what I hope to get out of my retreat, and how it relates to them. So there I was, as I intently hustled that evening to finish my post cards, when I realized it was just minutes before 8:30. Oh no, I didn't want to be late! I quickly stamped and mailed the cards, and rushed like Cinderella at midnight over to the chapel. I was relieved to take my place just in time at one of the last available seats just inside the door, almost next to the bell-ringer. As is the custom at Manresa, this would be my seat for the remainder of the retreat. Silence had begun. Or so I thought. "Psst!", the friendly fellow sitting comfortably next to me whispered as he nudged my elbow. "You got one of the banana seats, huh!" as if I knew what he meant. The only banana seats I had ever heard of were those dangerously elongated seats that allow a bicycle rider to slide back and forth as he performs stunts. I thought I had heard him wrong, or that maybe he was speaking Cajun French. "What?" I whispered back, equally violating the rule of silence. "You got a banana seat," he repeated. The puzzled expression on my face surely displayed my lack of understanding now, so encouraged, he continued. "It used to be that unless you got one of these seats near the door, they would run out of bananas in the fruit bowl at the dining room before you got there. So now they call them the banana seats, since anybody who sits here is sure to get a banana. I sit here all the time now." Just then, the priest began his presentation and I continued my stifled laugh in silence. And sure enough, there were always plenty of bananas available for the remainder of the retreat whenever I went from the chapel to the dining room. 