Blame it on Rio

The door to the office opened a crack and a head popped through.  “Kopfka. Can we come in/”

Before I could answer, the door flung open and my oldest and best friend Richard Magrath walked in followed in short order by his two adult sons Patrick and Sean. They were dressed identically in what is best described as preppy chic: Blue Blazer with perquisite brass buttons, khaki slacks, white shirt with a subdued tie. I had learned preppy from Richard back when being a preppy meant owning two pair of Docksiders but it was a style that never seemed to change much which was why I had chosen if for this day and was dressed identically to them.

Getting up from the desk we exchanged hugs. Not the bro hugs of two casual male acquaintances but that of family, where you hold each other tight and pound on each other’s back like Vikings. It was only right. RP was, in many ways, more a brother to me than my brother.  His sons called me Uncle Paul and were here out of love despite the fact each had traveled thousands of miles to be here on the budget of college students.

I was grateful for their presence. The events of the day required community. Not the community in the broader sense of the word, but the community that is the fingerprint of our lives. Those individuals whom you have met along your journey who have been incorporated into your life to your betterment. Those people whom you turn to for laughter, guidance, love, succor and support. Rich, Patrick and Sean were at the center of that group. Their presence would help sanctify the day but more importantly they understood my journey and could appreciate what it meant me.

After our hugging and back pounding were over Rich held me out at should length and said with serious “Kopfka, how are you doing?”

I smiled and provided him with my standard response to questions like this “It is a beautiful day in the neighborhood.”

Eyebrows raised, as if to say, “Don’t give me that shit”, he said “No, really.”

“Seriously, I am doing fine. Even great. It is a beautiful day. I am surrounded by friends. You, Patrick and Sean are here.  Everything downstairs and outside are done to perfection. What else could I ask for…”

“But…”

We exchanged glances. Mine saying “Really, you want to go into this now.” And his response equally silent was “Yeah, you have to.”

“Look around you. I wish he were here.”

On June 10, 2012 Elaine arrived in NYC.

We had agreed when I was in Brazil that we would try to do the impossible. That is, trying to maintain a relationship across two continents and thousands of miles. We felt that what we had found in each other was enough to warrant the effort and the loneliness that is bound to happen when one lives in a long-distance relationship. We also felt that we had some advantages. Both of us were old enough and wise enough to realize that the love we felt for each other was rare and irreplaceable. We also had a technological advantage. Between Skype, emails, and chats we could maintain almost constant contact.

But we also were old enough and wise enough to realize that technology does not replace the face to face, the belly to belly. And, as a consequence, we had agreed that we would try to be with each other as often as possible. Ironically, this was aided by technology. Elaine and I spent a good deal of our time working remotely. As long as we had our computer and a Wi-Fi signal we could work anywhere.

Her trip’s timing though was not only a result of new loves needing to be together. Dad was failing and I wanted them to meet before that opportunity expired.

That first day though I needed to introduce her to someone else. When we returned from the airport to my apartment in The Archstone, on NY’s UWS, we had a make or break moment for our relationship: an introduction to my best friend, closest confident, and occasional bed mate. It could have gone either way. My buddy I knew how the ability to charm anyone, but Elaine had some prejudices that would be hard to overcome. As a result, when I introduced the two of them I did so with a bit of trepidation.  I should not have worried. Yankee, my 11 year old Australian Labradoodle, was at his most charming and Elaine, despite being a true cat person, felt instant victim to his charm.

The next day we drove out to Summit. I was excited to show Elaine the town in which I had spent most of my childhood and in where my parents still lived.  I had not always had such fond thoughts of this tory dormitory town. As a teenager, I had thought the town boring, a bastion of white privilege (although we did not call it that, then.), and a place I could not leave soon enough. However, both the town and I had changed over time. The superb public-school system had attracted more Jews, Indians, Chinese and other groups who prized education. The nearby Short Hills Mall had stolen retail businesses away from the town which were replaced by coffee shops, day spas and restaurants. The quiet nature of the town, which I had thought boring in my teens, in my middle age seemed pleasant and relaxing.  In those ways, it more resembled a town that I would not mind living in.

There were also the truck loads of memories. As soon as we exited the highway and entered the canopy of trees that define Summit to me I begin to share with Elaine various events, incidents and disasters that in which I had participated. See that rock over there, kids used to challenge other kids to fight there. That store used to be Baskin Robbins where I worked in high school and where, after hours, we would make liquored up milk shakes. That is where I kissed a girl for the first time.. That is where Rich lived, and I would “hitchhike” here all the time. The result of which was by the time we had reached my parents home on Rotary Lane,  we had a full tour of memory Lane.

My mother greeted Elaine as if a long-lost daughter saying to her “I don’t know what you have done to my son, but I have never seen him so happy.” Elaine, giving her the double cheek Brazilian beijos, replied demurely that I made her incredibly happy as well and presented her with a beautiful serving plate we had purchased for her. My mother, knowing her part well in this particular dance, made all the right cooing sounds about loving the plate which we never saw again. She told us Dad was waiting for us upstairs so up we went.

My father was in his wheelchair, at the card table he had turned into a desk, reading the ink off the New York Times as he done since the world was young and still had dew on it. He, despite the ravages that time can play on a person, was still a very handsome man. He was also unbelievably charming with a soft Austrian accent that had caused most of the women I had been involved with to develop crushes on him. He was no less charming with her and they instantly lapsed into a conversation that all but excluded me.

Pop’s fascination with Brazil was not news to me. I had always thought that a good deal of that fascination had been sparked by his Aunt Sidi’s immigration to Santos, Brazil in 1924 Over the years he kept in contact with Sidi’s children and grand children and in 1995 he and my sister had gone for a two-week trip where they had visited Sao Paulo, The Pantanal, and the Amazon. As a consequence, when he decided to speak to Elaine about various places he had been to Brazil.  I was not at all surprised. What did surprise me was his reaction when Elaine began talking about Fernando de Norohna, a small archipelago with a protected marine environment 200 miles off the northeast coast of Brazil. Elaine was telling him about her visit to the island and how beautiful the fish were there when she mentioned during WW2 her uncle had been stationed there to help maintain a US Army Air base there. Dad became instantly attentive and asked a lot of questions about the island and even about what her uncle had done on the island. It was strange, even for an information sponge like Pops, to become so interested in an obscure place like this.

I would find out why he had been so curious a few weeks later and only then in context to a much larger mystery.

After a very Summit lunch of sandwiches from Towne Deli with Ente man’s coffee cake for dessert, Elaine and I got ready to head back into the city. As my beautiful Brazilian Princess said her goodbyes to Mom, I dashed up the stairs to let Dad know we were leaving. He was sitting at his makeshift deck, pecking away at the keyboard, no doubt writing a story or writing to one of his doctoral candidates. He always inspired me but no more so than in the last few months. He was so sick and feeble but he persisted. I knew at that moment he was unintentionally teaching me about life. Keep moving forward. I sat adjacent to him and with a signal he told me to wait. After tapping a few keys and looking at his screen he looked up at me and said “Are you leaving?”

“Yes, we are getting reading to go. I thought it would be nice if I said goodbye to you.”

“Goodbye to you.”

“Smart ass. Before I leave, I wanted to ask you what you think?”

“Of what.”

“Stop it. Come on. You know what I am asking.”

“You mean Elaine.”

“Of course, I mean Elaine.”

“She is very nice.”

“That’s it? “

“She is delightful and smart and surprisingly she even laughs at your jokes.”

“Not 102.”

He laughed. Over the course of Pop’s illness we had spent a lot of time together. To cheer ourselves we would often tell each other jokes. Some of these jokes were so old that they were collecting social security. One of those bits of humor told the story about a young man going to prison for the first time. He is incredibly nervous especially when they lock him in his cell and all they turn off the lights for now. Laying in his bunk he begins people yelling out numbers followed by uproarious laughter from the cell blank. “35” would be yelled and peels of laugher. 42 would be called out and shouts of hilarity would ensue. The new inmate is astounded. He can’t figure out what is going on so he asks his cellmate what is going on. His celli explains that most of the inmates have been in prison for so long and know all the jokes so well that they instead of telling the full joke they just refer to by number. The new inmate says “Let me try it” and shouts out 51. Nothing just silence. He thinks well maybe there is no 51 so he shouts out 102. Again, he is greeted with silence. He asks his cellmate “How come no one is laughing?” And the celli replies “Its all about the  delivery…”

It became a running joke with us, that whenever either one of us would tell an old joke we would refer to it by a made-up number. And, if the other did not laugh, we would “It is all about the delivery.”

So it was no surprise when Dad responded “It is all about the delivery.”

“Thanks Pop. I will work on that. But you still have not told me what you think.”

He smiled but in his serious professorial way and said “She will make you incredibly happy. I like her.”
“Thanks Dad.” And I hugged him a couple seconds longer than normal and kissing him on top of the head I choke out “See you in a few days.”

When I arrived back at the kitchen Elaine and my mother are still deep in conversation. It is late and I want to head back into the city and make attempts to hurry them along, but they ignore me and continue to chat until they are ready to finish.  Hugs and kisses are exchanged, and Elaine and I finally make to the car. As I start the engine, I tell Elaine I have forgotten something and dash upstairs and finding my mother in the kitchen ask, “So what do you think?”

With none of the teasing of my father she says “She is a keeper.”

The next few days Elaine and I explored New York City and our new love. We had romantic meals at places like Barney Greengrass, Shake Shack and Hill Country BBQ . Elaine said she loved as much as I did despite the absence of white table cloths and napkins. We went for long walks by the river in Riverside Park with Yankee serving as a ubiquitous third wheel. It was simple. And it was love. And when she left after 10 days I felt as alone as I have ever felt.

5 days later my father told his physician that he thought that the decision to go on dialysis had been precipitous. He didn’t require it and he wanted to stop. Despite the Dr’s warnings that ceasing the treatment would ultimately result in his death, he made the decision to stop. A week later he lapsed in coma. It was a difficult time for me and even thought Elaine was in Brazil I leaned on her for succor and support.

My love:

Today, I had an early morning appointment in the city. It is a meeting that I have been trying to arrange for a long time so I did not want to cancel it. I also did not want to leave my father but I had been assured by his Dr’s that nothing dramatic was going to happen today and that since he was comatose I wouldn’t be missing out on conversation.

So around 5AM I headed into the city to beat the traffic. It was good to be there as I have not been in the apartment in about a week. The only thing missing was you. But I loved being there and it was nice being away from the sturm and drang that has been going here. Sometimes I think it is good just to hear the sound of your own thoughts.

As you know, there are a lot of things running through my mind right now.

There is fear from losing a person who is not only my father and my hero but my friend. How will I fill that void and that gap that he will leave.

There is doubt. My mother has made the decision to end my father’s dialysis as he was incapable of making that decision. Is this the decision that Dad would make if he were competent…is this what he had planned when he ended his dialysis treatment. Has his life been a death by a thousand cuts of late and is this the only way to end his suffering? Or should we institute dialysis until his competent to make his own decision knowing there is a 50/50 chance that he won’t recover even with the dialysis.

There are memories.  So many and they drift to me like leaves drift to the ground in the fall. Some make me smile and some make me cry because they touch my heart so.

There is frustration. My sister has been a rock and very good to me but to get her comfortable with the decisions that have been made I have had to be gentle, kind and persuasive. I have had to filter my mothers comments as she has a tendency to think this is always about her and translate so that my sister understands the real thoughts and real emotions behind her actions. And then there is my brother who when we talked about the situation yesterday afternoon called my mother a murderer. Mind you he was not making plans on coming up here to say good by to my father nor has he been a lick of help in my Dads care but he is part of the family and for all of our long term happiness he needs to feel comfortable in the decisions we make. It took enormous effort and restraint to be honest with him and yet get him to the point where he could accept my mother’s decision.

There is fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of the inevitable. Fear of my own mortality and seeing myself in my father.

All of these emotions and thought flitted through my mind as I drove into the city…to my appointment and back out to Summit again.

Back in Summit I immediately went to the hospital to look in on my father. There is an open lobby there in which someone has long ago donated a baby grand piano that is sometimes played by a volunteer and sometimes played by a visitor who feels they need to express themselves musically. Today as I entered it was being played by a guest who had decided to play “Time To Say Good By.” I wondered as I heard the familiar notes whether this was a message from god or just some musician expressing himself.

My father was still comatose when I entered the room. His breathing was shallow  but he looked like he wanted to wake up but could not. My sister and mother were sitting with them both lost in their own thoughts and they brought me up to speed. He hadn’t awakened. The Dr’s try to get him to wake up but that they could not and that things were looking grim. During the telling of the story both my mother and sister tried to correct each other which made my ears buzz as conflict was what I wanted the least of today.

I left an hour later to head to meet Richard for lunch. He was in town on business and when he heard about my Dad he volunteered to come to Summit and have lunch. We got sandwiches and sat on the back porch and talked about my father, the mystery surrounding his military service, his son’s Patrick travails with bipolar disorder and alcoholism, his job….but mostly it was just nice being with a friend.

All to soon he had to leave and I had to go back to the hospital. When I arrived at my Dad’s room I had quite a surprise. My father was awake. He was not making a lot of sense but he was asking questions. He wondered how long he had been there. He thought his last memory was being downtown and did he fall and was my mother still in NY. That sort of thing. At one point I could see that he was having trouble speaking because his mouth was so dry. So I went to get him a glass of water and my mother yelled at me “What are you doing he shouldn’t have any water. You need to ask the Dr” It made me very cross because I had talked to the Dr. and he had said Dad could have anything that he wants. It took some discipline not to be angry with her and calmly explain that to her because she was being very vile. But I managed and managed to get him to drink some water which helped his lucidity some.

I pulled my mother outside while my sister was trying to have a conversation with my Dad and I said we have to ask him about his treatment. She was very resistant to this idea. I explained as well as I could that both Marissa and I needed to know what he wanted and if we could get him to understand the situation it would be best for all of us moving forward. She reluctantly agreed and then sent sister and I away to scavenge him some food. By the time we got back she mouthed the words “I talked to him….he is fine with what we are doing.” Now I need to say something not nice about my mother. She lies all the time. All of her children know this and have discussed it. She tells them often to manipulate people into doing what she wants or cover up something she doesn’t want you to know. But since we all know that she lies we can’t trust her when she said what she said.

So somehow we convinced her to leave the hospital and go home and rest so we could talk to our father and try to get him to answer our questions about his treatment. We both succeeded and failed in this. We were successful in informing him of his condition and what his options were. He told us that he thought the prudent course of action would be to have dialysis. We failed in the sense that my father was not fully competent to make any decision. Half of him was here and the other half in la la land.

This of course produced a lot conflict in Marissa’s and my hearts. What should we do. Should we follow the course we are on now. Should we get him started on dialysis again and let him make a decision when he is fully aware. In the end I told Marissa that nothing could happen unless Mom gave the order to start dialysis again or Dad, in a competent state of mind, told the nephrologist what he wanted. I ended up calling his nephrologist who was very gentle with me. First he told me that he would try to talk to Dad. Then he told me that he thought that from the conversations he had with my father that while Dad had never explicitly said he wanted to die his actions implied that it is exactly what he wanted to accomplish. That he thought the right thing to do was to let him go. And if there was conflict in the family that there were trained professionals on staff who could help us all come to a decision we are comfortable with.

It was left to me to have a conversation with Mom about Dad’s care. Needless to say this was not easy. She was angry and defensive and wondered why we had to have this conversation with Dad and why didn’t we do as were told….I had to be very gentle and very patient with her which I was and explained that all I was trying to accomplish is to make sure we are all on the same page about Dad’s treatment because if we weren’t and the inevitable happen it could rip us up as a family. I eventually got her calmed down. I told her we were almost there. That no one wants to see Dad suffer anymore but we just need to be at ease with letting him go and that takes a little time and reassurance from the Dr.’s and to some extent Dad. 

Needless to say I am exhausted. Too long a day. Too many emotions. But I need to tell you that you were with me all day. I had you in my heart. I knew you were thinking of me. I knew you were sending me powerful love. I knew you had Dad, my family and me in your prayers. You help make me strong. You helped me be patient with my mother and my sister and myself. You helped soothe my fears because whenever I needed to I could feel your hand in mine. Thank you for being there for me.

Now I need to go to sleep. I am exhausted. Will you meet me in my dreams. Will you hold me in my arms and whisper you love me in ear?

I love you more than Brazilians love sambas.

Truly

Your Paul

When my father regained consciousness, and was able to make decisions on his own, he made it clear he did not want to receive any more treatments. He had decided he had enough. That life being tethered to dialysis and the travails associated with it such as three times a week being carried up and down stairs on a stretcher and then a 45 minute drive to and from dialysis had degraded his quality of life to the point that he was ready for his journey to end.

The decision was made for Dad to come home. A hospital bed would be set up in the sunroom and there he would receive hospice care until he took the final step into the “good night.”

I had a dilemma. Before Elaine had left we had agreed that I would fly to Brazil for the July 4^th holiday. Now, with my father in his final days I felt that leaving would be at best inappropriate. But my sister and mother convinced me otherwise. Dad, they explained, would not be with it as one of the side effects of renal failure is slow drift into a world of imaginings and hallucinations followed by coma and eventually death. Dad would not miss me. And if the end was near it would not be so imminent that I could not fly home for final goodbyes. That after Dad was gone, I would be far more needed than right now.

I went despite my misgivings about spending Dad’s final days with him. I rationalized that this is what Dad would have wanted me to do. Whether it was the right thing to do or not it is what I needed to do. We spent much of that trip talking about my Dad. How the world would be altered without him. How I would miss him. How much I loved him. Elaine listened to me. She cried with me. She comforted me. She loved me.  When I left 8 days later, I was stronger for love and felt capable of facing when came next.

The flight from Rio lands at JFK at 6:30 and I was at my parents’ home by 9:00. After kissing my mother hello, I went to see the patient. Throughout my time in Brazil my sister and mother had reported that Dad was happy although mostly he made no sense.  She told me that he was mostly out of it, thoroughly enjoying a world of his own creation that was only interrupted from time to time by random burst of classic poetry like Tennyson’s “Charge of the Light Brigade.”  It was this version of my father I expected when I went to see him. Instead, the Dad I saw was bright and alert whose first words to me were “Oh good your back.”

Two days later he died.

I turned to Rich. “Tomorrow, it will be a year…”

Through the window I could see my sister’s children, Cate age 12 and Oliver age 8, racing through the back yard laughing and giggling. Their laughter unleashing shades of summers past… my father napping in a macramé hammock strung between two trees on lazy summer afternoons…my sister having a race with her cat Broccoli being more like sisters than pet and person…my mother, a city girl, engaged in her suburban passion of gardening…my brother and I running through sprinklers…It was a perfect place for what we needed to do today.

When you think of Rio De Janiero, you think of Copacabana, Ipanema, and perhaps if you are very sophisticated Leblon. Elaine’s home was in neighborhood called Barra de Tijuca, about 20 km west of those famous beaches. Unlike the high rises and urban atmosphere made famous by Jobim and Sergio Mendez, Barra sits on the edge of the Tijuca forest and is suburban with private homes and low-rise apartment complexes nestled between the beach and Pedra Da Gavea, a 2,970 ft mountain.

As we drove through the gates of Elaine’s community, Jardim do Itanhanga, I could not help recalling my thoughts on my Jeep tour through Rio two months ago. Passing through the forest, into this area, I had pondered what it would be like to live here. Now I was going to find out. It was easy to see why Elaine had fallen in love with this area. It was, ironically, for the same reason my parents had fallen in love with Summit: The trees. Instead of clearcutting the lots the builders had taken great care to preserve the ancient trees including several examples of the Pau-Brazil tree, which as Elaine explained, is not only the national tree of the country but how the country got its name.

Elaine’s home was at the end of a cobblestone road in the far corner of the community. Like all of the houses within the community it resided behind 2-meter-high gates topped with barbed wire. This provided a stark contrast from home. Even within our gated community, in our most tory communities, rarely do people live behind walls.  Certainly not in middle class countries. I wondered as we drove onto the property whether this was because we were more egalitarian, or they had more crime here.

Elaine’s house was beautiful. Sitting on ¾ of an acre it is of modern design. Made of poured concrete it is three rectangular solids, stacked slightly askew on top of each other. The house was designed to allow the outdoors in. The entire ground floor living room had floor to ceiling glass doors, all the bedrooms had panoramic doors, and there were two airshafts with glass doors that were, in essence, terrariums planted with indigenous flora including. For a man who is used to living in 700 sq ft (65 sq meters) apartment it is a little overwhelming and impressive.

However, before I can be too overwhelmed, I am introduced to Jocelino. He is a slight, dark haired young man, wearing a faded t-shirt, shorts and the ubiquitous Brazilian flip flop. Elaine tells me that he is her “gardener” which I learn later really means he is responsible for the outside of the house and the property. I go to shake his hand but before contact is made, I catch and eye signal from Elaine, telling me this would be inappropriate, so I hold back. She tells Jocelino to take my bags upstairs for me.

Walking into the kitchen I am introduced to Regina whom I am told is the cook/maid. She is African decent, short and extremely obese. She nods at the introduction and gives me exactly the same look a mother might share with her daughter’s suitor when they first meet. In other words, withering, with malice should I hurt the lady of the house. I will learn later that she is also a practitioner of Candomble, an African Brazilian religion, and the chance of real curse is very possible.  Elaine tells me that Regina has worked for her for 13 years and considers herself a part of the family. This becomes obvious over the next few days in many ways including muttering under her breath at requests, uneven housecleaning and lunches that were often so late that would have qualified for dinner in Florida. I

Eventually, Elaine leads me upstairs, ostensibly so that I can get cleaned up after spending the better of a day traveling. When we reach the entrance of the bedroom suite, she kisses me and the rest of the world greys out. All I care about is in my arms and nothing else matters.

The next week disappears in blur a lovemaking, sightseeing, shopping and long conversations about everything and nothing. By the time, I leave I know the affair begun on the Costa Pacifica was not a mere shipboard fling. It is the real thing.  It is love.

Shakespeare got it right. Parting is such sweet sorrow. And I wrote Elaine (whom I had nicknamed Lupita because she told me in NY many people had mistaken her for Mexican.)

My Darling Lupita

The definition of a long day is any day that I leave you behind.

Add to that a 10 hour flight, changing planes in the purgatory known as Miami Airport, three appointments, finalizing my lease and unpacking and you have an exceptionally long day….

Saying good bye to you last night was one of the hardest things I have had to do. My last glimpse of you, you peering out from beyond the barrier, you smile shining like a summer sun, and it was all I could to do to keep placing one foot in front of another. I wanted to run back to you and feel your arms around me. To bury my face into your hair and your neck, to smell your scent, and your body against mine. When I cleared immigration I turned to see if you were still there but you had gone so I found a seat in a departure lounge far away from other people and put on my sunglasses so people would not notice my tears.

I got to the lounge way to early. There was over an hour and half to wait. And I didn’t feel like being distracted by a book. Or by playing a game. I just wanted to think about you.

One of the first thoughts I had was that I had made a mistake. I should have walked you to your car. I felt badly that you had to walk through the building and to the parking lot by yourself. It was very ungentlemanly of me. It made me feel horrible. So I am sorry. When I come back in July, you will be walked to your car.

Then I wanted to call you on the phone and hear your voice but I realized that you were in the car and my calling would be a distraction. And then I realized night was falling and it made me feel badly that you were driving home alone.

Then I realized that I was just feeling sorry for myself because I missed you so much already. So I decided that what I needed to do was think of all the time we had just spent together and the happy times that we had together.

I thought about your smile. Your beautiful radiant smile that warms every part of me. It is truly incandescent my love and it means so much to me when I see it. When I am telling you stupid jokes…a ham sandwich walks into a bar. Or when I tease you a little and you realize it and it flashes on your face all the dimples glowing. Or after we make love and your happy in our intimacy and your whole face is aglow. Or that first smile, when I came out of immigration and I saw you standing there and the happiness written all of your face that made all the missing I had done seem like a very small price to pay.

I thought of our trip to the war memorial. How proud you were of your city and your country. How you were happy to walk through the museum with me and share the moment of joy, and wonder, and sadness that I felt while walking though it.

I recalled our movie nights. How nice it was just to be able to share these stories we loved with each other ….Love Actually, Slumdog Millionaire, Closer,  It’s a Wonderful Life.  I loved holding you near and naked talking about the movies what we liked. How wonderful your hand always feels in mine.

When they called my plane. I went but not without looking back and wondering where you were and hoping that you were home safe and perhaps even missing me a little. When I got to my seat I opened my cell phone to see if you, hope against hope, had written to me. And of course you did. Your note was so beautiful. I was sad that you had to fight the tears home but happy that my shoes and clothes were a comfort to you. I understood the beer and the sadness and the message that we would be seeing each other soon….but I knew the 30 days until I see you would pass with all the speed of a glacier. Sigh.

The woman next to me was a chatter. And she was fat. And had too much perfume. But she was sweet, so I nodded a lot and paid attention to my book when the chatter got too much. Eventually they brought me dinner. The steward made the trip easier by giving me a triple vodka for free with my dinner. So sleep came very quickly.

It was quite a shock when I woke up a few hours later. For the past ten days I had awoke to the woman I love. Her warm body intertwined with mine. Her beautiful smile waking me with sunshine whether it was raining or not…every morning was a beautiful morning. This morning I woke to a fat woman with a blanket over her head who was stealing my arm rest and forcing me to contort just to be a little comfortable.

Worse, I had figured out how American Airlines had decided to save money. They have removed all of the padding from the seats on their airplanes. Really they were so uncomfortable I had no choice but to think of happy things so that I could at least find a little bit of comfort.

I thought of our trip to Sugarloaf. I thought about the joy you had in sharing with me your beautiful city. The memories of your father and your trips. Pointing out all the landmarks. Telling me the history of your city and how glorious you looked in the glow of Rio Di Janiero.  I thought of how I remembered thinking that day how deeply and gloriously I was in love with you.

I mused about our shopping trips and our raids on the kitchen late at night. About cooking for you and wanting to take care of you and make you feel cherished and well loved.

I thought about our midnight talks and how can always tell you how I feel. How one night I told you of my hopes for our love. How I wanted to have my last first kiss with you. How I want you in my life always and how making you feel safe and loved was going to be my true north. How one night I woke and was unable to sleep because of worries and sadness and when I shared them with  you they disappeared and I could fall back to sleep again.

The plane landed early in Miami. As I have written to you Miami airport was a purgatory of long walks, disinterested staff, and endless waits. But I did go outside at one point and saw the nearly full moon high overhead. I thought of the moon on Saturday night. How it glowed over your house and our home and how we had danced to it and delighted in it and how I could probably never look at a moon again without thinking of you.

The only thing that made the trip bearable at all is the knowledge you will join me in New York in just a few weeks.

I love you more than planes love wings more than the moon loves beams.

You are, and always have been, my great love.

I remain forever yours.

There is a knock at the door. I say “Come in” and my brother in law Mark walks into the room. He is a Brit and one of the best men I know. Cool and calm, as you might imagine from that Island, he is also very funny in a completely British way. When he first arrived in this country, I appointed myself his guide to all things American. I would ask him things like “Have you ever had an Oreo?” He would look puzzled and then inquire a little about it and say “no.” Several days later I would drop off a box of Oreos. This went on for years. I introduced him to Ring Dings, Yodels, Drakes Cakes and dozens of other treats children in America take for granted. It was not until much later that I discovered that he had tried most of the things I asked him about. He just thought it was funny stringing me along. That and the free goodies he was getting from me.

“How you doing, Bro?”

“All things considered; I am doing just fine. At least it is a pretty day.”

“Are you going to be able to bear up?”

“You know me.” And he did. After 17 years of being a part of our family he knew that I was the member of the clan who wore his emotions on his sleeve. Given the slightest provocation emotion would gush out of me like Old Faithful.

“I do. That is why I have devised a plan to get you through this day.”

“Do tell.”

“Any time I see you getting emotional. Weepy. I am going to do my imitation of Sean Connery playing James Bond in Goldfinger and say “Pussy.” His imitation was perfect, and I laughed.

“Good. Just what I hoped for. I have to go help M but I will be back in a little while to check in on you.”

The door clicked shut and I returned to my thoughts.

Elaine and I had “connected” for many reasons. One of them was the circumstance of our trip. We were both on a break from caring for our fathers. Pops was suffering from, among other things, kidney failure and her father had kidney cancer. The trip, for both of us, had been a chance to recoup. To build our emotional and physical reserves so that when we returned home we would have the fortitude required for our parent’s care and the end that was drawing near for both of them.

Elaine had told me quite a bit about her Dad. For many years, due to a bitter and contentious divorce, they had been estranged. He was also a retired 3-star General in the Brazilian Army which tended to make him rigid in his point of view.  This had not always allowed for easy communication. However, in the last few years, especially since the death of Elaine’s beloved mother, their relationship had gained depth. Similar to me, Elaine’s first act on arriving home was to rush to see her father.

I wanted to meet the general. Not only because he sounded like a fascinating man but because I wanted him to know how much I loved his daughter. I wanted him to know she would be well taken care of and he need not worry about her. For weeks leading up to my departure for Rio I had imagined what meeting her father would be like.  I mentally rehearsed what I would say to him and what questions I would ask him. Sadly, I never got that chance. Elaine’s Dad passed away 10 days previous to my departure.

I did not find out about his demise until late on the day of his death and after increasing concern over several unanswered phone calls to Elaine. When I finally spoke with her, she was bereft and without consolation.  She explained that her Dad had died in the morning and as per the custom in Rio, due to the tropical climate he was buried in the afternoon. I tried to say the right things to her. To let her know that I cared but her sadness and the distance made consoling her by phone all but impossible.

After we hung up the phone, I felt as if I had not done enough to console the woman I loved. It also pained me that I had not had the opportunity to talk to the General before his death. I had wanted to tell him in person, man to man, that Elaine would be cherished and safe with me. To help me cope with my feelings of inadequacy in consoling Elaine and my inability to say what I wanted to her father I wrote him a letter that I then shared with her.

Dear General

Late this afternoon, your daughter wrote to me to tell me of your passing. My hope sir is that your body which has been so tormented of late has freed your soul and that it has found a better place. A place where the vigors of your youth are close at hand…a place where you are at ease and in no pain…a place where you can soak in all the love the universe has to offer.

I am only sorry sir that we did not have a chance to meet. I know we would have much to say to each other.

I think that I would have started our conversation sharing with you the love and admiration that I have for your daughter Elaine. I would have told you that she is a bright star in a dark universe and that her intelligence, charm and beauty make her worthy of her name. That the love I have for her is real and that I will do whatever I can to take special care of her heart, to make sure she never feels alone, and that her happiness is always put before my own.

I would also have wanted to share with you something that I know you already knew; how much your daughter loves you. From the moment I met her she shared with me her joys about the times you spent together. She told me stories of your trip to the World Cup, of sharing a cabin and adventures and of your trip to America with its circuitous path. But it wasn’t the stories that mattered, it was the glow in her eyes as she told the stories that told me all I needed to know of the very special love shared between father and daughter.

I would have complimented you sir on the daughter you raised. I know that one of your regrets in life was that you did not get to spend as much time with your daughter as you would have liked but I think that you more than made up for that with the gifts that you have given her. She is a good soul and possesses a kind heart and that was not created in a vacuum. Those are values you helped give to her. She has the love of the truth and is honest. Those are gifts you shared with her. She is thoughtful and intelligent and those are things you imparted on her. She is beautiful both inside and out and I know those are qualities you fostered in her.

Finally, I would have thanked you sir. Your daughter has been a blessing to me. She has helped me rediscover my heart and my voice. Her love supports me and sustains me. Finding her has been like finding a part of me that I never knew that I had lost. So thank you sir for giving me the greatest gift of all…love.

Sir, I hope your soul has found its peace and its reward.  You are and will be in my thoughts and my prayers. 

You are of blessed memory,

I salute you.

Paul Rothkopf

In my over three million air miles, I have developed several immutable laws of airports. The first law states that the distance from your gate to passport and border protection is inversely proportional to your desire to reach your destination. The second law is actually a corollary to the first law. It states that lines at customs and border control are inversely proportional to your desire to move through the lines quickly.

Both laws were in effect when I landed at Jobim International airport in late April of 2012. The plane’s gate was the furthest possible from passport control. (A later measurement would show it to be almost 1km) I had been bumped to business class and as such was one of the first off the airplane and I set out as fast as I could with a rollaboard and brief case. My goal was to try to be the first in line at passport control. It was a fast-enough pace for me to pass a number of fellow passengers and I do not think anyone passed me. My speed walking did not provide any help when I reached the checkpoint. It seemed like every international flight due in Rio that day had landed and disgorged their passengers at exactly the same time. The line was massive.

Waiting made me anxious. It had been a little bit longer than one month since I had last seen Elaine. Every one of those days I had missed her little bit more. Every one of those days I worried whether or not when I saw her again the flame of love which had burned so bright on board the Costa Pacifica would be as blinding now that we were back in the real world. I wanted nothing more than to see her and feel her in my arms. I knew that the minute I saw her I would know whether I would be broken hearted or over the moon. The longer I stood in line the greater the desire to see her and the greater my anxiety grew. I fidgeted. Counted people being processed by minute. I tapped my foot when agents held passengers in line too long.

The wait was interminable when I finally stood at the head of the line. Why had all the passport control officer decided to take forever processing the people in front of them.   When I was finally called to an agent it felt like he was moving in slow motion scanning my passport and declarations. He asked whether I was here for business and pleasures. When I replied pleasure with a smile it seemed to take him minutes to find a suitable page within passport worthy of his entry stamp.

Cleared to enter the country, I dashed past the carousels of luggage and promptly got lost in duty free looking for the exit. Not really my fault. Dutyfree is a big deal in Brazil as taxes on consumer goods are so high and as a consequence the area is huge. And like end of aisle displays at supermarkets they want you to see something along the way that you cannot do without so exit signs are  hidden to increase that possibility. Finally out of the shopping maze I had to pass through customs. Like most country they have a simple green line red line system. If you have something to declare you entered the red line, which no one in Brazil does voluntarily. As a result, there are two beefy, armed, federal police officers who give everyone passing through the green line the stink eye, including me. I am fairly sure the only reason they let me through was because I was carrying so little, I could hardly do much harm to Brazil. Or perhaps it was the winning smile I forced on them.

Just beyond customs there was one last obstacle to clear. The taxi kiosks where aggressive hawkers offered to drive you any where in the world for a price far lower than their competition. They were not shy about offering their services, all but grabbing me by the arm and pulling me to their booths. I ignored them and after a couple of jukes and a stutter step or two I was walking through sliding glass doors and into the main terminal.

The entrance resembled that of a red carpet at the premiere of a movie with a central aisle roped off from they paparazzi.  Instead of holding microphones and cameras, many in the crowd held up placards with people’s names written on them. As opposed to yelling out the celebrities names and “over here” people yelled out “What flight are you on?”, “First time in Rio?”, “Need a Taxi.” And like many a paparazzo upon seeing a B or C list celebrity I was simply ignored while their eyes strained to look around me for someone more important.

I was blind to all of it. To me the crowd was a single blur and the shouting no more than a dull buzz. I only had eyes for one person, and I scanned the ropes looking for her and nearly panicked when I did not see her. Had I really come all this way for nothing. Had I been that big a fool. Then, as if scripted in a movie, I saw her push through the crowd and come to the rope.

It was if a spotlight shined on her and similar to a tight shot in a movie everything around her faded away. Her smile was incandescent and blinding and somehow, she looked even more beautiful than she had aboard the Costa Pacifica. In that moment I knew without any doubt that if I had anything to do with it this woman would always be a part of my life. What I didn’t realize at the time, that this moment would be the one I recalled when I ever needed to focus on a happy place to chase away any blues I might be experiencing.

I am in my father’s study, sitting at his desk staring out the window into our backyard, a place of countless memories that will soon add one more. I have fled to this room, Dad’s sancto santorum, not only to flee the chaos that is taking place in other parts of the house but because it is a place I can still sense his presence, even a year after his death. Perhaps one reason for this is the room is unchanged since he sat behind the desk here. The Oxford English Dictionary is still on its stand spread open revealing its inner meanings. His bookshelf lined with the photographs of his children, grandchildren and the adventures he had during his life.

I have loved his desk since he and my mother bought a matched set 50 years ago. It is of Scandinavian design, made of teak and has crisp clean lines with nooks and spaces that belied its simplicity. It suited his personality perfectly. It was a serious desk for a serious man with a touch of style and places to hide things that you did not want others to see. It is a desk, where I uncovered truths about my old man.  When he was not home, I’d rifle its drawers for hidden secrets. Treasures such as the autopsy report on his father that showed he had died of a combination of alcohol and the medications he was taking. The two guns my father had taken as war booty. A secret stash of pornography.

After my father’s passing , Mom had promised this desk to me. But sitting behind on this day I knew that while it may be in my possession one day, it would be always be his desk. And the thought of that comforted me. Because on this day, more than anything, I wish he were here. As an only child, whose extended family had been murdered by the Nazis, he had a deep love of family events. They made him feel like he had done his part in rebuilding the world; that the lonely boy who was sent off with the goat herder had his own flock and would never be alone. And he would have been delighted with today’s affair. After all he had been there for the beginning of the story.

When I had returned from the cruise 16 months ago, I had barely stopped at my apartment to drop my luggage off and pick up my dog Yankee, before heading to my parents’ home.  I wanted, needed, to tell Dad about my adventures. Don’t misunderstand me. It isn’t that I didn’t want to see Mom and share some of my stories with her, but Pops was my adventure buddy. He was always thrilled to hear the adventures of his children and would press to hear of the places we had been and even the food we had consumed. But it was more that. He was also desperately sick with kidney disease.

For the past two years he had been confined to a wheelchair, his world shrunk to his home and even there he rarely went anywhere besides the master bedroom suite and the kitchen.  During that time, I had spent most weekend and the occasional week days sharing primary care giver duties with my mother. While this ate much of my free time, I did not think of it as a burden. Even when it was overwhelming.  I was grateful I had the ability and the where with all to take care of him. And, to be honest, I was getting something out of it as well. Time with the old man.

It was typical on weekends for me to be take care of my Dad in the mornings. There were the unpleasant parts of that job which included dealing with his biological needs including emptying cath bags and changing diapers. This would embarrass him some but as I explained to him, he used to do it for me, so why should he be embarrassed for me doing it for him. But the pleasant far outweighed the negative. I would cook him breakfast and bring it to him on a tray and as he ate, we would talk about everything from current events to selected stories from the volumes of his personal library of memories. Often these conversations would last long past breakfast and encroach on lunch. These discussions changed our relationship from father/son to something higher. The place where father and son become friends and confidants.

It was during one of these morning conversations months earlier he had voiced a concern that I was spending too much time with him and not enough time taking care of myself. When I told him that I was doing fine and there was nothing for him to worry about he called bullshit on me. He said I was alone, without a partner, and that was no way to navigate life. He worried about me being alone and that spending time with him gave me less opportunity to find someone with whom to spend my life or would not allow time for a relationship to develop. I had, as one does, downplayed his concern. I am fine. I have a robust dating life. Yankee was a chick magnet. But he was right. I was lonely. Spending time taking care of him and assisting my Mom cut huge swaths of time out of my life. Time that could have been spent pursuing love.

The reason I was rushing to my parents’ home after my journey of 20 days, 12,000 miles and 6 countries was I wanted to tell Pops about Elaine.

The car ride from my apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan to Summit NJ where my parents live is barely 20 miles and on good days doesn’t take much longer that 40 minutes door to door. I spent most of that trip trying to figure out how to tell Dad the story of my trip. As excited as I was about falling in love with Elaine I did not want to lead with that story.  While meeting her was far and away the most important thing that had happened on my journey distance and time had made me circumspect. Shipboard romances often have a truly short shelf life. The artificial setting of vacation and adventure is a hot house environment for romance and the transplanting of it to the real world is fraught with peril. In the case of Elaine and I, the challenges we face were even greater as we were also negotiating a relationship and love that would have to survive a 6,000-mile separation.

Those doubts had not blunted my ardor. On the flight home from Rome I had written Elaine a love letter.

My dear love.

 Dawn was blue in Rome this morning.

When I stepped out of my hotel this morning, the ink black had turned a blue usually only found in lapus lazullli. At that hour, the streets of Rome are empty and my cab driver decided to exercise his inner grand prix driver. I don’t think that you have really lived until you have bombed down the narrow cobbled streets strewn with antiquities

But my eye kept turning to the sky and its deep color of blue. It made the perfect backlighting for the forum and coliseum as if pictures of those ancient marvels had been mounted on dark blue construction paper  they were so perfectly silhouetted against the early day.

As we moved from the center of Rome towards the perimeter the sceneary changes, baroque buildings, sculptures and were replaced by Umbrella Pines and more modern apartments. The sky changed from indigo to the medeterrean blue we saw that last day of the cruise.

I was so tired that it was hard for my mind to hold a single thought beyond a few sentences. They came at fast and quick like the kilometer markers on the side of the autostrada.

The reason for my fatigue was that I had awakened at 3:30 AM and could not fall back sleep. My first thought as you might imagine was of you. I wondered if the hotel room at the airport was nice. I thought about how badly I wanted to see you, hold you, kiss you and how I would be so close that maybe I should direct my cab there instead of the terminal. I wondered whether seeing you just for a moment would hurt more than relieve the ache I feel.

I thought about cancelling my flight home and just spending a few more days in Rome with you. I contemplated what it would be like to walk the via Veneto with you, to stare at fresco’s on church walls, even to shop the city with you. What it would be like to hear your laugh and call my “my love’ in that soft wonderful accent I adore. I thought about how it might be to have you in bed and I tried to imagine your body spooned with mine.

I knew that this what I wanted more than anything and I began to plan what it would take to make it happen. I would have to arrange for someone to take care of Yankee for a few days as my sitter was off to LA in the morning. That could be arranged but it would require some time on the phone and probably a bribe or two. Then there was my father and his health and my responsibility to him. While I didn’t think that a few days would make that much of a difference I do know that I have a growing sense of unease about his health over the last couple of weeks. The part of me that is a son, wants to be near him and care for him, because I know the time is going to come all to soon that I will not be able to. Then I thought about the new job that I am supposed to start tomorrow. The people who have asked me to work with them have been pretty tolerant of my extended holiday and I know I would push it a little further…

But then I thought of you. Would you really want to spend the next few days in Rome with me. While I have faith in how you feel about me I don’t know what the current situation is with Christian and Yarra. Would adding me to the mix make things worse or a little better. I don’t know. For that matter I didn’t even really know where you were? How would we meet? What if I got there and you were not there. What if I arrived and you had left for the city….

But I did ache for you at that hour. I so badly wanted to be with you. And you were so close.

So I wrestled with my thoughts there in hotel room for two long hours before I gave up. The only consolation I had was that the hotel had a wonderful tub shoulder deep that I remember being the standard in Europe when I was a child…I thought they were mini swimming pools…so at 5:30 or so I took a hot bath. And while it was lovely it didn’t help untangle my thoughts or even make that sleepy.

I was deep in thought about my thoughts as the first signs for the airport appeared in the brightening sky. I was employing wishful thinking.  I was hoping that as we got near to the airport your hotel would be apparent and I could tap my driver on the shoulder and say “Pull over in there and hold the cab while I run inside for a second.” It was a lovely fantasy to have and good for my sleep addled brain but alas it turned out to be just a fantasy as your hotel didn’t appear out of the mist of the early day and far too soon the driver had dropped me in front of the terminal.

Getting checked in was quick and efficient and before too long I was sitting in the shopping mall they call a terminal. I thought of Yarra and Christina making one more round of shopping before heading home. The good news there is that they will not find much to buy….perhaps some booze, or cosmetics but the stores by and large are very upscale and fashion focused.

The folks at United Airlines were kind enough to give me a pass to their first class lounge so I went there to wait for my flight. It was a big open area with lots of seating down in an Italian modern style. Along the far wall was a panorama of Italian scenes but it really much of a place. Not much food.  Nespresso machines instead of the real coffee.  So I made myself a terrible expresso and sat down far from other people so I can find a little piece and quiet and close my eyes for just a little bit.

I never found sleep but I did get to that transcendental place between consciousness and sleep. I thought of your hand in mine. I thought of how your hair smells. I thought of the moment you saw in the Round the Clock Lounge waiting for passports and the fierce hug and kiss you gave me. I thought of your laugh and smile and how each gave me joy.

And then they called my plane and before I knew it we were leaving the ground. And I stared out the window I hope that luck would allow me to see your hotel but I was not that lucky as we headed east and over the sea that had been our birthplace and our home for so many days.

I am tired now and must rest. I must find a pillow to put my head on but know that I love for you is bigger than the United States including Alaska.  I will find you in my dreams. Love pdr.

Yankee made up the three flights of stairs to my father’s bedroom far quicker than I did. Not only did he have four legs to my two, he was one of the most intuitive dogs I have ever known. In a crowded room, he could pick out the person whom needed the most love in nano seconds. And he loved my Dad.  He would spend hours sitting or laying on the floor next to him keeping him company and leaning in for the occasional pet. When I entered Dad’s room, Yankee was sitting next to him, his head in Pop’s lap, while my father whispered sweet dog nothings to him.

I walked over and while simultaneously giving him a hug around his shoulders and kissing him on top of his heads, said “Hey Pops.”

“Your home! Welcome back. How was your trip.”

For the next hour I told him of my adventures. How wonderful it was to spend time with my cousins in Sao Paulo. How they greeted me as if the prodigal son returned and how Lia had shown me a picture of our grandmothers, sisters, that was taken shortly before they had said goodbye to each other forever. How it inspired me to write a story about them. I told him the story of my first few nights on the cruise. How lonely I had been and begging the Maitre Di to please find someone whom who I could have dinner that spoke English. I described my meeting of Elaine. How over a series of adventures in Salvador, Fuchal, Teneriffe, Gilbralter and Casablanca and long dinners we had fallen in love.

When I had finished my monologue, I reached into my backpack and pulled out a tissue wrapped package and said “I almost forgot, I brought you a present in Casablanca.” In the pre-history of my life, my Dad had found himself in Cairo and had purchased a brown and white djellaba, a type of hooded robe worn by North African Arabs. He loved it and would often wear at night while working at his desk. Memories of late night talks with him while wearing the Djellaba are some of the warmest of my childhood and while we were in Casablanca I was determined to find him a lightweight version. One he could wear now. Elaine and had navigated a crowded Casablanca souk to find it.

When he held it up I said “It is a light version of your djellaba. Elaine and I picked it out for you. Do you like it?  I bought a matching one for Ollie. I thought it would be fun for you two to dress alike as you look so much like each other.”

“I love it.”

“Try it on.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll help.”

As I helped put the robe on, not an easy task for someone in wheelchair, I said “Can I ask your advice about something?”

“Sure.”

“Dad, I have no doubt that I am in love with Elaine. She is everything I have ever hoped for in a woman. She is beautiful. She is smart. She is funny. She laughs at my jokes…”

“Considering your sense of humor that is remarkable…

“Nice..But I am worried. How do I know that this is not just some shipboard romance that last only as long as the cruise and then fades into the library of pleasant memories?”

Pops thought about it for a second and then opined “The only way you will ever know is when you see her again. If that spark that existed while you were on the cruise still builds a flame.”

Three weeks later I found myself hustling through customs at Tom Jobim International Airport in Rio De Janiero hoping for fire.

My father was a psychologist from Vienna.

Not the type of psychologist that the most famous practitioner of psychology from Vienna practiced.  Dad was an experimental psychologist. Not a clinician. He spent a very distinguished career trying to find out what mechanisms our brain uses in learning.

I always found it vaguely poetic that he was trying to learn how people learn.

I also found it inspiring. Which is one of the reasons I chose psychology as a major in college. Like my father, I was fascinated by how our minds worked.  As it turned out my father and I had viewed the psychological world through the same lenses. He was a great believer in operant conditioning, BF Skinners belief that we develop behaviorally based on positive and negative rewards. It made sense to me intellectually. And, more importantly, at least to me, it was not theoretical, it could be proven empirically.

But he and my mother shaped me that way. It was odd, or perhaps to be expected,  whenever I returned from school and began to discuss whatever had stimulated me in developmental or educational psychology he would nod his head and more often than not respond “Yes, your mother and I decided to raised you using that theory.” It was a little unnerving at the time that my parents had chosen specific psychological theories in which to raise me, but it was probably better than them just winging it.

One of the things that my father did not like was constantly being compared to Sigmund Freund. This was inevitable considering his field and place of birth. But what Freud represented was in many ways the antithesis of who he was. My father was a scientist. You postulate a theory. Devise a test for that theory. Gather evidence based on that test and reach a conclusion on your theory based on the empirical data. He was a staunch believer in healing psychological wounds yourself. As a child who managed to survive the Nazis and the murder of the majority of his family, he had a low self-pity quotient and high reliance on self-reflection and improvement.

While later in life, during difficult times and moments I embraced therapy, and believe in it as a tool to solid mental health, I never embraced Freudian theory. I found it too reliant on the sexual and largely impossible to test and quantify, so I rejected it. Not that it was not worth learning. Certain constructs within his theories are extraordinarily useful in understanding how the mind operates. For example, I think his theory on ego, superego, and ID valuable. The theory is that the ID develops first and is the part of our mind that directly responds to our basic urges, needs and desires without any modification by consequence. The ego develops to moderate the unrealistic ID and the external real world. Ego works to satisfies the IDs needs by compromising or postponing satisfaction to avoid negative consequences of society. The Superego develops lasts and incorporates the values and morals of society. It has the function of persuading the ego to turn to moralistic goals rather than simply falling pray to the ID’s whims.

I was thinking about this the other day.

I was having pleasant, if not somewhat upsetting conversations, with a number of my friends who are great fans of the current occupant of the Oval office.  They believed that the steps that Dr. Fauci and other rational Covid 19 thinkers are too much. Social distancing does not appeal to them. Masks are a ruse. Hygiene is useful but how many times can you wash your hands a day. They want to “free” our economy by letting stores, restaurants, and bars open and letting the public fill the stands at sporting events.   I did not understand this at all. I was, remember, raised by a scientist. The empirical evidence clearly shows that when a population wears masks, embraces social distancing and practices good hygiene the incidence of disease is reduced to manageable levels. Why, then, did my friends reject the science and embrace theories that would only make the Covid crisis worse?

So I asked them, perhaps undiplomatically, why they thought it was okay to violate these simple, easy to implement rules.

A few gave me constitutional arguments.  Wearing masks and keeping folks from assembling the way they wanted to, violated their first amendment right of assembly. In a rare show of tact, I just listened instead of telling them that they seemed very interested in their constitutional rights and not so much when it came to people protesting systematic racism in places like Portland, Chicago and New York.

Quite a number mentioned that they thought that Covid 19 was a fancy flu that was overblown by the liberal media and that if we had not “over reacted” at the beginning this “thing” would be over by now. I guess I could have mentioned that factually they were wrong with Covid having 10x mortality rate of the flu and that the empirical evidence suggests we reacted far to slowly and then without any cogent plan. That was what was prolonging our suffering.  But I suspected facts had nothing to do with their arguments, so I just let them talk.

There were those who espoused personal sacrifice. The Covid crisis had caused them to give up some of their favorite things. They could not go to the gym or to play golf or go to sporting events. They did not feel like sacrificing anymore.  They were willing to take the risk of eating in restaurants or meeting friends at cocktail hour because enough was enough. When I pressed them a little and reminded them it was not just about their personal wellbeing, that eating indoors at a crowded restaurant or having a drink at a bar could infect dozens of people they came in contact with and dozens more who those folks came in contact with, they had no response. They had sacrificed enough, and they were going to do what they wanted to do.

I am very fond of the people I talked with whom I spoke. Most of them I have known for years and in few cases decades. I thought that I knew them well. Without exception they are smart talented people whom, under normal circumstances, I would enjoy spending time with. Which is why I found these conversations exceptionally confounding. How could people I know and like choose paths that would lead to the spreading of the disease and without regard of the consequences? How could smart people not accept the basic science that the disease is real, deadly and do the right thing by implementing the simple acts of social distancing, mask wearing and limiting your exposure to other people?

I wanted to be kind to them. I wanted to be understanding. They were after all folk whom I considered friends. But my anger at their blatant and ignorant disregard for others in pursuit of their own personal gratification made me want to label them. Call them names. And, I thought of quite a few epithets, many of which would still be bleeped on network television. However, while I was going through this litany of invectives, I hit upon a word that described them perfectly.

They are IDiots.

Not in the traditional sense of the word: an utterly foolish or senseless person. Or even in the archaic psychological meaning that defines a person of the lowest order of intelligence with a mental age of less than three years old and an IQ less than 25%. But in a Freudian sense where a person is ruled by their ID.

Remember the ID is the baby part of the brain. It responds to basic urges and needs without modification by consequence. We develop ego and superego to moderate the ID’s urges to avoid negative consequences in society. Folks, who think only of themselves, deny there is a pandemic, feel the need to congregate in indoor places like restaurants without masks, don’t wear masks or social distance are only using their IDs and are by definition “IDiots.”

Please do not get me wrong. I am not trying to insult these disease propagators. That would be unfair. I am merely trying to define their behavior and to remind people not to be an idiot…socially distance, practice good hygiene, and wear a mask.

Marika returned and said with joy in her voice “Look what I found.” I looked up and thought she was referring to the beautiful apparition of the Martini that stood majestically on her tray. But when she bent down to place my salvation in front of me, I saw behind her the three Brazilian princesses approaching my table. Is there a word in the English language that describes a single moment when your heart goes from the depth of despair to soaring to untold heights? If there is, I do not know it, but it is what I felt right then.

The three were wearing similar dresses. Long, brightly floral, and almost touching the floor, they hugged their bodies to the hips where they flared. Carmen Miranda would have been comfortable wearing these dresses, but she would not have been as beautiful a sight as Elaine. Her dress fit her perfectly to six decimal points and her smile appeared to illuminate the room. Had I been a character in the Looney Tunes cartoons of my youth, my jaw would have dropped to the floor and my tongue rolled out of my mouth like a rug being spread before royalty.

I rose to greet them. Elaine, giving me the traditional double cheek kiss, whispered in my ear “I am so sorry we are late, my sister wanted to take photographs at the disco and she and Christina were taking forever.” This is the first time I learned of the mildly annoying genetic predisposition of Brazilian’s to photograph themselves doing virtually everything. But that day it did not matter to me at all. I was simply happy that Elaine was there and that my worst fears did not come to pass, my self-doubt unfounded.

Dinners on the Costa Pacifica often had themes to them. It added, at least in the minds of the cruise directors, to the festive nature of the voyage. That evening it was “Italian night” which seemed redundant to me on an Italian Cruise ship. I mentioned this to Elaine as we were perusing our menus and when Elaine laughed at my pyknic attempt at humor all the fear, loathing, self-doubt, introspection and worry that had characterized my day here to fore disappeared. She had, with a single chuckle, restored me.

We spent dinner talking about her day. It turns out that she had not gone on the excursion with her sister and Christina.  Elaine told me that they were all sharing the same state room and that one of her reasons for staying behind was her desire to, at least for a few hours, enjoy a little bit of personal space. The other major factor in staying behind was that Yara and Christina both had a proclivity to shop for tchotchkes in the same way a shark hunts for pray. Circling and circling until they were sure and then attacking with ferocity and eyes rolled back inside their head, acquiring objects that would fill their suitcase and after adorning their homes for short periods of time before becoming landfill.

I told her I understood. I certainly could relate to the need to be alone. While I am more gregarious than most, I am also very self-contained and need time by myself if I am to be me. And I had seen the princesses feeding frenzy in tourists’ shops. It had scared me.

I was on the verge of telling her “I wish I had known we could have had lunch” when I had a sudden attack of self-control. I thought, she wanted some alone time. Telling her you wanted to spend more time with her would put too much pressure on her and make you sound too desperate. As I exercised this remarkable feat of self-control Elaine looked at me with concern in her eyes and said “I would have called you for lunch today but I didn’t know your stateroom number.  So I couldn’t. “It was the first time Elaine showed the ability to read my mind. It would not be the last . Not that day. Not this lifetime.

At dinners end, Yara and Christina wanted to see tonight’s performance in the theatre. The crew was having a talent show and they thought this would be an enjoyable way to spend some time. Elaine gave me a look which said, “Please not that.” Taking her lead, I tried to convince them that a talent show would be awful considering the shows that we had seen had not exactly been stellar. However, the princesses were not to be deterred. We went. And, it was dreadful. I have cringed less watching horror movies. The jokes were so corny they could have been produced in Iowa. The performances so stiff that Claymation would have been more lifelike.

Taking our cue from our first night , Elaine and I spent much of the performance cracking wise.. It made us laugh. But it did not please Yara. She thought we were being disrespectful to those performing. And there is no doubt we were, but we were having fun, so we continued being smart assess. That is, until Yara told us if we could not control our comments that we should leave. Which is what we had wanted to begin with, so we left.

Our first stop was Rick’s Piano Bar which I thought amusing as one of our stops on our journey would be Casablanca. Clearly, other people shared my sense of humor as the place was packed. We moved to Rock Around The Clock lounge. There we chose a table as far away from the band as possible in the hopes that amidst the disco lights and booming sound system we could have a conversation.  Over several cocktails, caipirinhas for me and vodkarinhas for her, we talked the talk of people who do not want the conversation to end.

While we spoke for hours I can only remember one element of our conversation. We had been talking about Ilheus. She wanted to know if I had seen the statue of Jorge Amado.  Being the ignorant American I am, I asked “Who?” She then patiently explained that he was the dean of modern Brazilian writers whose books “Captains of the Sand,” “Dona Flor and Her Two Husbands,” and “Garbriella, Clove and Cinnamon” were practically required reading for Brasileiros. I asked her which book I should read first, and she told me I needed to start with “Captains of the Sand.” I promised her I would read it and then asked if she had any favorite American authors. She paused only a second and said “Kurt Vonnegut. I love him.”

It was a singular moment. Kurt Vonnegut had been my favorite author since High School. Starting with “Welcome to the Monkey House” I had read every one of his books, multiple times. I loved his story telling, sense of irony and exposure of the absurd. He is one of the few authors I knew who could make me laugh aloud while reading.  Elaine telling me that Vonnegut was her favorite author told me in a single phrase morethat we shared more than a love of an author, we shared an outlook on the world and on life.

It hit me then. Like a thunderclap. I was in love.

Our conversation continued. Me, doe eyed and leaning in on every word. Hoping there might be an opportunity to kiss her but finding no suitable moment. Eventually, the band stopped playing and packed up their instruments. Our waitress appeared with our check and while polite, let us know that despite the bars name, it was closing.  I did not want the evening to end but the time had come and I offered to walk her to the room.

We held hands as we walked to the elevator and were silent as it conveyed us to her floor. When the lift stopped, we paused for a second in the vestibule and I said “I had an amazing time this evening.” She replied “me too.” For a moment there was an awkward pause that could only be filled by beginning our walk to her room or by a kiss. I chose the latter. It started out chaste and innocent but quickly turned into something else. One of those worlds shaking, knee weakening, mind destroying kisses that seem to defy time and known physics.  Where the world is forever changed for the better and you are left gasping.

I awoke mid afternoon with a dry mouth and a blazing headache.  My mind still churning away.  Did I make the correct decision in not going with Elaine and the other princesses to shore? I missed her for sure. I longed for her company in the way I always savored something new and delightful. I wanted to jump in feet first and totally immerse myself in it. While I had no problems with this aspect of my personality, I also knew that this was not always the safest course of action. Sometimes when you took a dive off a cliff into a crystal blue lagoon you found that there were rocks underneath the surface that would destroy you. I also knew from painful experience that not giving people space pushed people away instead of bringing them closer.

There were 14 days left on our journey. Take your time. There is no hurry. That sounded right. But it conflicted with everything I was feeling at the moment. Where all I wanted to do is soak in everything that is Elaine.

Conflict unresolved. I went to the gym to work through some of the dynamic tension. Hoping the physical exercise would release emotional pressure. It did not. Have you ever tried running on a tread mill on a rocking ship? Your foot placement is completely thrown off. Sometimes your feet hit the belt too soon or when you expect to find firm footing you find none. The result is the same. You are constantly off balance. And so it was with me in the gym. I never quite caught my balance on Elaine.

Part of that might have been my choice of music. I stupidly picked Adele’s 21 to power my workout.

Listening to Lovesong:

Whenever  alone with you
You make me feel like I am home again
Whenever I’m alone with you
You make me feel like I am whole again

Whenever I’m alone with you
You make me feel like I am young again
Whenever I’m alone with you
You make me feel like I am fun again

And One and Only;

You’ve been on my mind
I grow fonder every day
Lose myself in time
Just thinking of your face
God only knows why it’s taken me
So long to let my doubts go
You’re the only one that I want

I don’t know why I’m scared
I’ve been here before
Every feeling, every word
I’ve imagined it all
You’ll never know if you never try
To forget your past and simply be mine

I dare you to let me be your, your one and only
I promise I’m worthy
To hold in your arms
So come on and give me the chance
To prove I am the one who can walk that mile
Until the end starts

If I’ve been on your mind
You hang on every word I say
Lose yourself in time
At the mention of my name
Will I ever know how it feels to hold you close
And have you tell me
Whichever road I choose, you’ll go?

I don’t know why I’m…

Not the wisest choice in music. It kept me as unbalanced as the ships rocking had on the treadmill. But I managed to finish an hour-long workout and returned to the rooms with few of my demons exorcised.

I prepared for dinner that evening with great care. The shower was extra-long. Shaving more methodical and closer. The selection of clothing was designed to put my best foot forward from the perfectly pressed khaki’s to impeccable navy blue b to the crisp French blue shirt and immaculately polished loafers. I knew that I would not look “cool”, whatever that meant these days, but I would the best I could for what I was. A middle-aged man looking to find romance one more time in his life.

When I finished dressing, I looked at my watch. I must have been anxious to get to dinner because they would not be opening the doors to the dining room for another hour. To kill time, I went to the Grand Bar Rhapsody on Deck 4. Pretending that I was a sophisticate from a Somerset Maugham novel or some Bond movie I ordered a vodka Martini. While I waited for the bartender to fill my order I turned to the stage.  The Brazilian duo of the bald man and tall woman with long dark hair were singing soft Brazilian songs that I had never heard but thought lovely and soothing. To my right were a group of over served Germans who were speaking too loudly in general but specifically because there were artists performing. I made a note to myself to avoid places where German tourists congregate and happily turned to my Martini for succor. It provided none. The vodka was watery and was half vermouth. Even the olives were desiccated.

I turned my attention to the room. I see the older Italian woman with the bright dyed red fauxhawk mullet styled hair. She is dressed in a very low-cut silver sequined gown and is attached to an incredibly young man who is dressed in a dark suit with matching tie. I have never seen a gigolo before. I mostly have thought of them as urban legend instead of as fact. I am fascinated by their interactions. She coo’s at him and feeds him little treats from the bowl of nuts sitting at their table.  His response is obsequious and pet like and I wonder, out of personal amusement, whether she keeps a Pekingese as well.

Dinner is called and I make my way to they table. I have been anticipating this moment all day and I wait at the table in eager expectation of Elaine’s company. And I wait. And I wait. And I wait. When 20 minutes had passed  I understood that all of the angst and anxiety I had been feeling all day were for nothing. I had been an idiot. My dive from the cliff had hit the unseen rocks. What I felt was not shared and that she and the other Brazilian princesses were avoiding me and avoiding dinner. I signaled our waitress Marika.  When she arrived I ask her to bring me a vodka rocks and told her that I would like to order dinner. She asked pointing to the noticeably empty seats “ Don’t you think they are coming?”

Looking at my watch I replied, “I don’t know but dinner started a while ago so I think it is unlikely.”

Sensing my sadness and embarrassment she said soothingly “Well, why don’t I bring your drink. And if they are not here by then we will put in your order.

While I waited for my liquid comfort to arrive, I allowed myself to feel humiliated. I spent the whole day thinking about this woman and clearly, she had very different thoughts about me. How could I have so badly read the situation? How could I have been so foolish to believe that this Brazilian beauty would be interested in this average joe from New York. What a schmo.

The elevator we used was in the far aft of the ship and I was far forward so I had to walk down what seemed like an endless hallway to get to my room but I was totally distracted by the kiss. What did it mean? Did she like me in the way that I hoped that she would. Was she trying to send me a message? Weren’t her lips wonderfully soft.  I was so distracted by her kiss that I overshot my stateroom and embarrassingly had to double back.

After hanging up my clothes and brushing my teeth I climbed into bed turned out the lights and opened my iPad. Normally when my brain is hyperdrive like it was after Elaines kiss, reading soothes and distracts me enough that I can slip quietly to sleep. But reading was not helping . I kept reading the same paragraph over and over again without any comprehension or recollection. My mind refused to slow down, refused to stop asking questions. What did the kiss mean…it was just a dry lipped kiss nothing more. Then why did it feel different that just a kis? Why couldn’t I get this girl out of my head? Why was I continuing to think about the brief second our lips had touched? Why am I am behaving like such a girl? Did she do this to me on purpose? Did she know how she was effecting me?

Eventually, I gave up and turned the light back on. Had I been at home I would have turned on the television and watched some show about picking, storage lockers or pawn shops until my brain was so deadened that I would fall back to sleep. But the most exciting channel on board ship, the only one where I could understand what was going on, was the one that showed the ships position and various cams on board ship. Boring program yes, but not one that held that magic combination of holding ones attention just long enough to distract while at the same time being so mindless that you could drift away. It was time for my old friend Jose Cuervo.

I had picked up a bottle going through duty free and figured that a few good pulls on the bottle would put me out as quickly as a baby who has just been given formula. I took two large pulls from the bottle and went out to my balcony to smoke a cigar.

It was warm and the sea was calm. The only sound was of the ship slicing in its way through the South Atlantic. On the horizon, a full moon was just pulling itself out of the black sea, back lightening clouds making them look ethereal.  The dark night revealed the Milky Way, The Southern Cross,and the rest of the constellations of the southern seas. A song from the distant past became an ear bug.  I couldn’t get it out of my head.  I pulled out my phone and searched through the songs until I came to the song I could barely remember and put it on speaker. Southern Cross by Crosby Stills Nash and their impeccable harmonies with the words that had been eluding me.

Think about how many times I have fallen
Spirits are using me, larger voices callin’
What heaven brought you and me cannot be forgotten
I have been around the world looking for that woman girl

Who knows love can endure
And you know it will
And you know it will

When you see the Southern Cross for the first time
You understand now why you came this way
‘Cause the truth you might be runnin’ from

When the music ended, I listened to the sound of the waves against the hull and let the movement of the ship and let the view of the galaxy envelope me. How many worlds was I looking at? How many souls staring at the night sky thinking of the endless permutations of the universe. Did love exist everywhere in the universe or was it just a human perversion?

I thought of Elaine. I know what I thought I felt. But it got complicated from there. That unique space where a solution creates a problem. It was confounding. I remembered what a teacher had taught me long ago. The best way to solve a problem was to break it down into parts.  Then solve the parts you can and hope that will resolve the riddles of the parts you did not understand.

I started with the obvious, Elaine was beautiful. She looked as if she belonged in a Paul Gaugin painting. She had long thick black hair and brown skin. She had curves where a woman should have curves. I thought about her smile which she seemed eager to share and was luminous. I thought about the form fitting dress that she was wearing that night and the swell of her breast…how round and firm they looked and how they seemed to fit her body perfectly. I wondered, not for the first time what it would be like to see them and hold them. I thought of her ass…what had my cousin in Sao Paolo called it…. a bunda. It was shapely and round and was accentuated by her wasp waist. I pondered what it would be like to hold her close our bodies melded ….

Clearly, I was attracted to her. And I knew she was to me. Not because of anything that she said but 1000 little things like a soft touch to the hand or arm. A glance. Conversations punctuated by the excitement of sharing personal stories and intimacies.

But was this just the overexcited imaginations of a lonely middle age man on vacations? Did I see what I wanted to see, a beautiful intelligent woman falling in love with me. Or was it a mirage that would disappear the minute I left the ship.

It became an endless thought loop. Swirling, whilrling and reversing itself. Conclusions always just an inch away but never closer.

To break the cycle I tried reading again. While I could comprehend full sentences, the words held no interest to me.

I tried another shot of tequila. All it did was remind me of something a Customs and Border Patrol Officer had once told my father when he brought a bottle of tequila back from Mexico. “Son, that stuff will make you see double and feel single.”

I sampled the extra large Toblerone bar I had stashed. I hoped the sugar high and the attendant insulin infusion would send me headlong into the land of nod.

But sleep remained elusive. For a long time I just  lay there in the dark rock , impervious to the rocking of the ship and gave in to the invetible thoughts about Elaine. Just before dawn as the sky was turning from black to gray I fell asleep.

We were already docked in Maceio when I awoke the next morning. Stupidly, I had forgotten to close the curtains completely to my room and the bright tropical sunlight had flooded the room. It was still early, just a little bit after 8am, and I tried to fall back asleep but it was as elusive as it was the night before.  This was frustrating because I had nothing to do that day, save writing, as I had decided not to take any tour that day. Maceio from its description in the guide book had seemed like a resort town with beautiful beaches and little else. While I love the beach, I had not fully recovered from my sunburn as of yet and to pay money not to get any sun just didn’t make an awful lot of sense to me.

Elaine had invited me to go out and tour the city with her, Yarra and Christina but I had declined. I had told them that I had come on board the ship to relax and to write and here to for I had done too much relaxing and not enough writing. So I told them I was going to write today. What I didn’t say was that I wanted to spend the day with them, to be close to Elaine, but I didn’t want to impose on their good nature. I didn’t want to outlive my welcome.

It was a stupid move because I woke up wanting to spend time with Elaine.

Unable to sleep anymore I threw on a pair of shorts, a t shirt and a pair of flip flops and walked up the flight of stairs to deck 9 and the breakfast buffet.  The place was going full throttle as my shipmates were try to throw down breakfast before they left on their various tours. I was lucky enough to get in line behind an elderly German couple who had decided the purpose of the buffet was to try as many of the offerings as possible. This required contemplation, dialog and conversation and very little regard for the line that was growing behind them. Finally, when they have paused for what seemed to be five minutes in front of the pork product area, I said “Geburstag” which means birthday in German as I couldn’t remember the word for excuse me and hoped that mentioning birthday would keep them from being too angry with me as I cut in front of them.

I found a place at a table that was along one of the two main aisles of the restaurant. I hoped that I might see Elaine and cajole her into having a cup of coffee with me. It wasn’t to be. I saw a lot of German Tourists, talking to loudly and wearing socks with their sandals but no Elaine. I saw the cordovan headed woman whose hairstyle was a crossbreed between a French braid and a mullet. She was still looking for husband number 6 so I quickly looked away. Still no Elaine. I saw a group of French tourists, dressed mostly in white with their sweaters perfectly draped on their shoulders but not Elaine.

Eventually I gave up and after stopping at the bar for a half dozen bottles of water I went back to my stateroom and began to write. I spent the morning at the keyboard. The words came easily for a while and it was a simple task to get lost in the story and the words. Which is why I was not that surprised when I looked at my watch and saw that it was already late morning but the minute I stopped typing the lack of sleep caught up with me. So even thought my work was going well the call from pillow was like the Siren’s call to ancient sailors. I didn’t care what the consequences I needed to reach that pillow.

Remarkably, though sleeping did not come easily. When I closed my eyes, I saw Elaine. I thought of her soft voice and sparkling eyes. I conjured conversations that we had the night before and was delighted to remember her irreverent sense of humor. I recalled our chaste kiss in the elevator and wondered whether she had been as struck by as I had been.  And, I was struck by my stupidity. What an idiot I had been not to go along with them today. I rationalized it by saying I had to write. I did and I wanted to because that was one of things that I hope to accomplish on this trip but for some reason spending time with Elaine seemed more important than my writing just then.

I tried to convince myself that this was really the right way to get to know Elaine. That giving her space and time to miss me was a good thing. To give her different experiences that we could share at dinner would insure our conversations never lingered. But I knew that as true as some of those justifications might have been that the bigger truth was that I had made a mistake and should have gone with Elaine that day.

When sleep came, it was fitful.

The Spa on the Costa Pacifica was called The Samsara Spa and their “hook” was that they specialized in eastern treatments. I had been curious about their Ayurvedic rituals.  Not because I thought that the east, especially India had a unique take on spirituality, but I have found over time that opening myself up to new experiences allowed me to understand myself before. Besides, I love the word ritual. It makes me think that there is something deeper to the experience than just a massage or a facial.  And besides, I thought to myself aren’t birthday’s all about rituals.

I had chosen a ritual called “Shirodara” The pamphlet they had handed me at the front stated:

“Shiro means “head” and dhara means “pouring of oil.” The result is a purely enchanting experience. This treatment is guaranteed to relieve the stresses of daily life and reenergize your vital energies. A flow of warm oil is directed onto the third eye, to induce the Alpha state of deep relaxation, integrate brain function, and create brain wave coherence. This is followed by luxurious eastern massage techniques on the scalp, which focuses on the meridian lines and the crown chakra, bringing harmony and well-being to the body.”

I did not know about third eyes, Chakra and the like but I did know that it was going to be a new experience and that, to me, is  what birthdays are all about.

When I had arrived at the spa I was escorted to a small room by my “therapist.” She was petite, and Philippiana, and had her hair in a bun tied tightly to her head as if she were a school marm in the old west. The room was dimly lit and smelled faintly of aromatic spices and oil. In the middle of the room was a massage table covered in a crisp white sheet and behind it a tri-pod made of dark wood that supported a brass vase several feet above the table. Tina, my therapist, told me that I was to undress down to my underwear and lie face up on the table with the sheet covering the lower half of my body.

I did as  instructed and after Tina made a few adjustments to the table including better support for my neck, she placed a warm wrap around my eyes. She explained that it would help me relax and release any “toxins” I should have in my sinuses. She told me that in a few minutes that she would begin to slowly drip oil onto my forehead right in front of my third eye and that would resonate with my “nervous system” aligning my chakras and produce a deep relaxation. And, that while the oil dripped, she would massage my body producing further relaxation and chakra alignment. I thought of all the B movies I had seen where the Chinese water torture drove men to insanity and hoped that was not going to happen now. Too late now to change treatments I relaxed into the new experience.

Massages almost always produce deep relaxation for me. As my muscles are kneaded, tensions slips away and I often find myself asleep or in that in that state between consciousness and sleep where you mind drifts from one thought to another like a river flowing. As the oil, which was warm, viscous, and fragrant dripped onto the middle of my forehead and my shoulders and neck rubbed with skilled strong fingers my mind wandered.

I thought of the day I had just had with Elaine. We had never stopped talking and she so kind. I wondered what it be like kissing her.

The oil dripped on slowly like a metronome against my forehead but softly as if I were being stroked.

My thoughts turned to my parents. I worried about how my mother was handling the stress of caring for Pops alone, but I let it go as there was nothing I could do. I felt concern for my father. He has been so sick and pondered how long he would allow the dialysis to go on and when he would let himself go but let that go because I could do nothing to help him now and I was living an adventure he would surely love me savoring for him.

My mind drifted back to Elaine. I hoped she was having some of the same feelings I was having. I have never been good at picking up on those signals. The first woman to whom I had made love had said said to me as I was taking her pants  off “It is about fucking time.”

The oil dripped on but I was less conscious of it now and it had become like mantra, a whisper in the background of my awareness.

I thought about my birthday. No one knew it was my birthday on board. The captain had sent me a card but I think it was really a computer. Did I want to make a big deal of it? Did I want to mention it or make a big deal of it. The decision like all good decisions came to me easily. I would not make a big deal of it, but I would not ignore it either. I would order a bottle of champagne and ask them to toast to my birthday but make it like it was just an excuse to have a little more fun.

Images of my past birthdays came into my mind. Chocolate cakes with Vanilla icing.  Mom always cooking my favorite meal. Left over birthday cake for breakfast. Celebrating the night before…the jewish tradition of the day beginning the night before…thinking it was great way to begin “your day.”

The oil was dripping more slowly now a signal that the session was coming to a close. I took a deep breath and exhaled as if a sigh.

I thought of the evening before. The night I met Elaine. If I had been at home, we would have been celebrating my birthday then. I would be opening whatever gifts I had…Was Elaine my gift this birthday…She appeared on my birthday a wish as certain as I had blown out the candles….But were the stirrings that I felt, felt by her as well or is this some fantasy a lonely man on a long cruise makes up for himself….

My therapist said “Mr. Paul, did you enjoy your session.”

“Yes, very much. It was….enlightening.”

I arrived at dinner as early as I had the night before. Sitting at the bar, waiting for the dining room to open, I watched the Germans smoke and get drunk. The wait and the crowd gave me the space to ponder the existential question of why people where socks with sandals.

My plan was to get to dinner so I could surreptitiously order a bottle of champagne before the Brazilian Princess’s arrived. Then, when we arrived, I would propose a toast to my birthday and their company.  But as Robert Burns (or was it Kiss) observed “the best laid plans of mice and men often go asunder.” First, there was no wine list at my table and then there was no Marika or anyone else around to bring it to me. When Marika finally did arrive, along with the wine list, so did Elaine, Yara and Christina.

I do not know why I decided that completely formal rules of etiquette applied here but I did as I had the night before and stood as they approached the table. They were dressed as they had been the night  before, formally in long dresses, with make-up precisely applied, and jewelry hung or draped over strategic body parts. Elaine, unsurprising look magnificent.  She glowed and I yearned. I held the chair for her and as she sat down, I asked casually “Do you like Champagne?” She replied “Of course, but you don’t have to order wine for us.”

I said excuse me but if she could bear with me for a second I would explain. I asked the other two princesses whether they liked Champagne or not and while each said they did both also said that they didn’t drink very much. I called Marika over and asked her to bring us a bottle of Veuve Cliquot a bottle of wine I enjoyed as much for the color of its label as I did the taste of the wine.

When the champagne arrived and was poured, I held my glass and said “Today is my birthday and then looking at Elaine “and I can’t think of anyone else I would rather being spending it with than you.” And then clinked glasses with each of them.

Elaine said “But you didn’t tell me it was your birthday today. Why didn’t you tell me we could have made a bigger celebration?” I told her I loved my birthday but that I was a bit reticent to mention it as it seems a little unseemly for a person my age. It was a stupid thing to say and I knew the minute that it came out of my mouth. It begged the question how old are you and that is not a question that I really felt like answering, I didn’t want Elaine to think that I was too old for her. But it was out there and Yarra asked the inevitable “How old are you…” and I thought that I could see a bit of devilish grin on her face.

I thought about lying. I know that I look younger than my years. But I also hate to lie, and it is a lousy way to start a relationship with anyone.  I told them “55.” Their silence was stunning, and I thought for a second I had made a horrible mistake being so honest with them. Elaine came to my rescue. She put her hand on my arm she said “Really, you don’t your age at all.”

“How old do I look.” I replied hoping for a mid-forties estimation. She replied “35….” Whether she was lying or not I do not know but it was certainly the right thing to say to me at that point as it made me comfortable with telling them the truth.

Dinner was wonderful as the champagne served as the social lubricant that I hoped that it would. We talked about families and trips that we had taken. We talked about Gabriel Garcia Marquez and of movies that we had seen and loved. They threatened to have the entire wait staff come and sing me happy birthday, but I flushed and begged them not to so in the end Marika just brought me two deserts and we clinked glasses and my princesses wished me a good year.

After dinner Yarra and Christina insisted that we go to the show but not before berating us over the behavior Elaine and I had exhibited the night before. They told us, in halting English and some Portuguese that I didn’t understand, that we needed to be quiet and respectful of the performers. At some during this dressing down Elaine and shared a glance and she flashed me a conspiratorial smile and had I known her even an hour longer I would have grabbed her hand.

Elaine, when we finally made to our seats in the theatre, said “Fuck them, we will do we want to do. If the performers stink, I do not mind telling them so. “ I was both surprised and delighted by her use of the invective. Surprised because Elaine appearance was that of a very proper lady and considering the language barrier you would not think that she have such a command of swearing; Delighted because I had grown up with a father who had his vocabulary considerably expanded by the his stint in the army and I had a tendency to use the same colorful language that he did. It made me realize that I could relax a little more around Elaine. It also made me know what I had just surmised about her….that she had depth and was complicated. I knew that I wanted to plumb her depths.

The show was much better than the night before. It featured a Brazilian duo. A tall, shapely woman with long dark hair and a lovely face as the vocalist and a short, round, bald man who accompanied her on the guitar.  They played a series of Brazilian standards that Elaine seemed to know the words to as she often sang along with them and occasionally they played a song I knew such as “The Girl From Ipanema” and “Brazil.” And much to Elaine’s and my surprise they were good. Not only were they good musicians but good performers managing to capture the audience with their passion for the songs they were singing.

As the night before, Yarra and Christina decided that they wanted to go back to their cabin and upload the hundreds of pictures they had taken that day. So Elaine and I went back to Rock Around The Clock to have a nightcap. The club was only slightly more crowded than the night before and we found ourselves a seat, sitting side by side on a velveteen banquet in the back of the restaurant.

We listened to the band, contemporary Brazilian music primarily Axe, talked and drank Caiparhina’s. As the conversations progressed I found myself both listening to Elaine and paying attention to my own inner dialogue….wondering when the appropriate time and place to kiss her. She was captivating and funny and smart . There were many times where I wanted to grab her hand but didn’t bound by both shyness and confusion of what the right thing to do in her culture would be. The result was that I was far more formal than I would have been. My mother might have called it, to my great embarrassment, being a real gentleman. However there were times where I could not hold back and would touch her arm or knee to make a point.

Eventually, the band stopped playing and I could see the bartenders looking at us with hope that we would get the message that they wanted to go to bed. So, reluctantly, I walked her to the elevator. We pressed the call button and stood there awkwardly not knowing how close to stand to each nor quite what to say to each other to end the evening. The elevator came and we stepped into it pressing 7 for her and 8 for me. She stood close enough to me so that I could catch the subtle fragrance of her perfume.

The elevator chimed and the door opened to deck 7. I said “I had a wonderful time tonight.”

“So did I.”

I leaned forward to kiss to bid her goodnight kiss her goodnight and was greeted with soft lips pressing against mine. The kiss did not last long but lingered just long enough to know that that there was something more to it than politeness. She smiled, stepped off the elevator, gave a little wave and walked towards her room just as the elevator door closed.

I held out my hand in introduction and said “My name is Paul.” She replied in perfect English “My name is Elaine.” I was not prepared for an English sounding name and embarrassed had to ask her to repeat her name. It took two tries before I understood her to say Elaine by which time my cheeks were glowing in embarrassment.

Her hand was soft and warm and unlike so many women who hold your hand as it were overripe fruit her grip was confidant and strong. Before I could even think about it I reached over and pulled the chair next to me away from the table and gestured for her to sit.

As I sat down, I thought “ What a lucky coincidence that this was. The only woman on the ship that I had noticed, the only woman on this voyage I had wanted to meet was now sitting next to me. I made a mental note to thank god and to remember to bring cash to the next meal to tip the Maitre D.

I wish I could tell you that I could remember every single bit of our conversation that night. That I could repeat it word for word. That each syllable is indelibly etched memory. Sadly that is not the case. I was so overjoyed to be relieved of the burden of only listening to my own thoughts, of being with people who spoke my language well, and being next to this woman who had caught my eye for days that the specifics of our conversations are lost.

What I remember is that all asked where I was from and when I told them New York they got very excited about my city. They all told me that they loved it there. Elaine mentioning that she has been there many times and had even lived there for a while studying English.

They told me that they were from Rio. And when I told them how much I had enjoyed the city a few days previous Elaine told me that you could see Rio in a day and that I needed to come back and let her be my tour guide. Attempting to flirt I said I would hold her to that, but she said “of course. It is why I said it” almost as if I had insulted her integrity. I thankfully did not know then that Brazilian custom dictates an invitation to your home when you meet someone. Regardless, for the second time that evening I felt the blood rush to my face embarrassed her taking my comment the wrong way. I swore to myself to tread more easily in the future.

At one point I asked Elaine how she had come to be on this cruise. She told me that her sister Yara had planned the trip, but she had come because her father had been very sick and she had been caring for him.  Caregiving had taken an emotional toll that she knew she needed to get away to regain her health and her spirit.  This took me back a little. Not because I didn’t understand the need to take a vacation from caregiving but because I understood all too well. It was, after all, was one of the main reasons for being on the cruise. What were the chances?

I recall the conversation was easy, that the food and service good and that all to quickly the last crumb of dessert consumed. I didn’t want the dinner to end so I told them that “I would be honored if I could buy them a drink’ feeling far more a shy teenager that the middle aged man I was. When they declined they must have seen my face drop because Elaine said to me “But we are going to show would you like to go with us?” I readily agreed and followed them into the theatre with my hands clasped behind my back like I had seen all the sophisticated European men walking the night before in a vain attempt to be far more sophisticated and polite than I normally am. I am not ashamed of thinking at the time that Elaine possessed a great “bunda.” Which at the time was the only Portuguese word I knew.

We thoroughly enjoyed the show. Not because the show was good but because it was bad. Elaine, as it turned out, had not only learned English but she had learned a few words I had not learned until I was in college and had an absolutely wicked sense of humor that corresponded to mine exactly. We spent the entire show making fun of the acts, which to be honest, was not hard to do. But our raucous behavior earned Elaine and I a reprimand from her sister and Christina who thought we were being very impolite. But Elaine kept going. I seem to recall her saying something sophisticated like marvelous like “Illegitimus non carborundum” only having to explain that it was GI Latin for “Don’t let the bastards get you down.”

The problem with enjoying yourself is that time passes far too quickly.  And, far too quickly the show was over. I did not want the evening to end so I renewed my invitation for drinks. Yarra and Christina said they wanted to look at photographs but Elaine, graciously, agreed.  We found our way to the Atrium Bar on deck three,  at the bottom of the central well of the ship. There was a Brazilian duo playing. The man playing the guitar was short and rotund. The woman beautiful with a figure that would be admired by geometers with long dark hair. Their music was perfect backdrop for conversation: Brazilian standards, bossa nova, and jazz.

We asked our waitress for two Caiparinias and we began to talk. And then we talked some more. Then we talked some more. There was never a moment’s pause in the conversation. There was always something new to say. One of us would always be reminded of another story or joke or situation we had been in. It was as if we were two people who had known each other their whole lives yet had never met and had plenty to get caught up on.

As we talked, I was made more and more aware of how beautiful Elaine was. Her face was a perfect oval with high cheekbones, deep brown eyes, with a sensuous mouth that had an easy smile that was iridescent.  But it was more than physical beauty. There was an inner quality as well. I could sense a very gentle soul with inherent kindness and lurking behind a veil of shyness an imp looking for the joy and humor in life.

Several Caipirinhas later, it became evident that the bar was in the process of closing for the night.  I signaled for the check. While we were waiting for it to be brought to me Elaine asked what I was doing the following day in Salvador Bahia. I told her that I had not signed up for a tour early enough so I was going to stay on board the ship and write. She said “You don’t need a tour. Christine, Yarra and I can show you around. I have been here many times.”

As we walked to the elevator we made plans to meet the next morning. When her elevator came, I leaned forward to kiss her good night and was presented very quickly with her cheek. I smiled and told her I had a wonderful time this evening and she replied that she did too.

When the elevators doors closed I stood there a moment before I made my way to my stateroom.

The next morning Elaine and I me at the bottom of the gangway. There Costa’s crack photography staff had positioned several models wearing outfits that were supposedly authentic to the middle 19^th century in Brazil. Their white dresses hung off their shoulder and hung to their knees and were trimmed with bright floral embroidery around the neckline with a matching belt. On their heads they wore a white turban made of a fine cotton and tied in front. It was here that I first learned of the Brazilian compunction to have photographic evidence of everything. Christina and Yara insisted on having several photographs taken with the models.  first by the ship’s photographer, and then by their own cameras

The port building is Salvador Di Bahia is like every port building I had seen in Brazil. A very long narrow one story building with a high roof and a number of small shops inside where un-adventuresome tourist can buy a quick souvenir and then return to the ship. The only thing that made Salvador’s different than the others I had seen was that it was a little longer than the others and of course the “gauntlet

Immediately upon exiting the building we were besieged by street vendors who wanted to sell us something. Most hhad religious ribbons to sell. Bahia is the center of the Candomble religion, a faith that is a mixture of Catholicism and an African religion brought into the country by slaves.  Other had t-shirts than they thought we should own. Taxi drivers wanted to show us around. Fruit vendors wanted to make sure that we did not get scurvy. And they followed us around like they were paparazzi and we A list celebrities. I did my best to keep them off of the girls and myself but me telling them to get out of our way and pretending I was a pulling lineman in the NFL but seemed to have little or no effect.  It was just more chum for the shark exciting to even larger levels of salesmanship.

The good news was that the minute we cleared the port building they lost interest. Elaine explained to me that normally that they were not so bad; she had been here before, but that my luminescent skin and American accent made them think us easy marks.  She said she was hopeful that I kept careful watch over my wallet.

Our first stop was at Mercado Modelo which was just around the corner from the port. It used to be Salvador’s main market where farmers would come and sell their produce, but the growth of the city had changed that. Now it is largely used for vendors who wanted to sell trinkets and local handyworks to tourists. I had had no real interest in going here but Christina and Yara I would soon learn were Olympic class shoppers of tchotchkes and any opportunity to buy a trinket would be worthy of a stop.

The market, despite the early hour, was crowded and Elaine and I followed the girls down one aisle and then another and then they seem to disappear. Elaine asked me if I was interested in buying anything here and I said no. She then said “Let’s go. Places like this are too crazy and too crowded. I do not like places like these. Everything here is shit.” I decided two things at that moment. First, that she said the word shit better than anyone I had ever heard use that particular invective. She and I  also shared a dislike for small crowded places. However, on the way out of the market we did stop a number of stalls where some local linens were being sold. Elaine mentioned that Salvador was known for its cotton and linens and that she had bought some here her last time and she loved them. The fabrics she looked at were beautiful, simple, with rich colors and admired her taste.

As we left the market, Elaine explained to me that the city of Salvador was divided into two cities, an upper and a lower. She told me that to get to the upper city you had a number of choices, you could walk which would be arduous and take us through some of the less pleasant parts of town; you could take a taxi which would be expensive or we could take the Lacerda Elevator which is a large public elevator that take citizens and tourists alike up the cliff face to the upper city. She said that she preferred taking the elevator because it was inexpensive, ½ Real, about $.16 and didn’t take long.

We walked the short distance from the market to the elevator and stood in line. And stood, and stood some more and after five minutes or so it became apparent that the line was not moving. Elaine made some inquiries and was told that one of the two elevators was broken so it was only moving at 50% capacity. We were in the process of deciding to take a cab when the line suddenly lurched forward. Apparently they moved whole blocks of people inside the structure to make sure they didn’t get overcrowded and so when the lined moved it really moved. When it came to pay, to my embarrassment Elaine had to pay my way as I had left all my change in my room and the smallest currency I had was 50 Reals.

The elevator ride was blessedly short as it was very crowded and very warm not unlike a New York City Subway car on August day with the air conditioning on the fritz. When we walked out of the elevator building the sun had decided to reappear and the lit the town brilliantly and to me it looked like it belonged in Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel.

To the right was a beautifully church like building that looked to have been built in the early 19^th century. It was the former town hall turned into a museum of the city. Ornate and white and glowed in the mid-morning sun.

To the right was a a plaza that offered up a fine view of All Saints Bay and the lower city below. The bay was a beautiful aquamarine, with a small marina for pleasure craft in the foreground, a small old fort in the middle distance and further out you could see freighters at anchor. It was beautiful and easy to see why this place had been inhabited by the Portuguese since the early part of the 16^th century.

With Elaine leading the way we headed up the street that ran parallel to the cliff. The buildings looked old, and from the colonial period.  However, as Elaine explained,  that there had been an extensive restoration project. UNESCO had named Salvador, a World Heritage Site, and considerable funds had been spent remaking history. I noticed that many of the buildings had music stores in them and asked her about it. She told me that the city had a nick name “The City of Happiness” because of a rich musical culture much of with an African flavor l as  Salvador was the center of the slave trade in Brazil.

Eventually we made our way to a large open square. Elaine explained that this was the site of pillories. Where public punishments would take place in effort to keep the slave population under control. Runaway slaves were often tortured in public or hanged here in effort demonstrate the fate of any who defied authority.  She told me that while Brazil did not abolish slavery until the later part of the 19^th century that its history with slaves was far “calmer” than in the United States. That there had not been the prejudice that we had towards people of color, but that slavery was largely seen as an economic necessity and that modern Brazil did not have the same racial tension that existed in the US.

As she explained this all to me in her very soft Brazilian accent, I realized that this was a very bright woman. Not many people in the US could give an accurate and well informed description of a city they didn’t live in. She also smiled and laughed a lot and tolerated my endless questions with good will and humor. She had been beautiful from the moment that I had met her but as we walked and talked I realized that this was a woman of substance and style wrapped in a wonderful 5’3” frame.

Off the square we bore right and made our way to the entrance Church of Sao Francisco. She told me that she didn’t believe in this religious “sheet” it was beautiful and that I should see it.  It was crowded with vendors forming another mendicant gauntlet outside the entrance Elaine put her head down and pushed through the crowd and I followed in her wake but as I got close to the door I saw a man in a wheel chair. It looked as if his body ended at his waist, yet he legs that pointed away from his body at a 90 degree angle. He held his hand out in supplication. I was completely horrified by his appearance and tried to find a loose real in my pocket to give him but before I could I was pushed into the church. I grabbed Elaine and pulled her back to the door because I wanted to share with her my horror and empathy for this poor man. She was equally aghast and could see that this woman had a heart.

Our walk to the church took us through the convent. Next to the walkways were a series of blue and white tile works that depicted different virtues. Elaine explained that these were for the common people who came to church and who could not read so they learned the values of the bible by what was depicted on tiles  While I don’t believe in many of the values of the church I thought these were wonderful because they were so practical my favorite being one that taught the virtue “of being in the middle of the road.” I wanted to take a picture and put it on a tea party website.

The church was dramatically different that the church in Ilheus. It had been simple and elegant. This church’s interior is best described as exuberant. Every surface is covered with“golden sculpted painting and woodworks.” I overheard a tour guide tell their group that this was a near perfect example of Portuguese-Brazilian Baroque Church…a golden church. I didn’t know about that, but it was imposing and beautiful in the way some houses are at Christmas when they go all out with the lights.

We left the church and walked around the town. Not really sightseeing. Not really shopping. Just walking and talking like two friends who had known each other for an exceptionally long time. She was telling me about her teenage years when the country was in the midst of a lot of political turmoil and confided with me at one point she had even been a communist. I don’t know whether she thought I would be shocked but she told me in way that suggested she thought that I would not approve. I think I surprised here when I said “ You know Winston Churchill once said That if you not a liberal when you are you have no heart….” And before I could finish she said “And if you are not a convservative when you are older then you have no brain.” I was very impressed she knew the quote.

Eventually, the heat, which was massive , the humidity which was oppressive and the strain on our feet got the better of us. The elevator lines being too long, w jumped into a cab and headed down the hill. How we came to discuss politics I cannot recall but as we drove through awful slums and she was told me of a former President who had been very rich but also very corrupt but that he kept on getting elected. I asked why and how this could happen and she said to me “We just think a fat rat will eat less than a skinny rat.” I laughed aloud at the common sense and was completely charmed. It made me want to reach out and hold her hand or have some physical contact but not knowing what the rules were in Brazil I resisted. We passed the rest of the trip frustrating her in my inability to pronounce the word Salvador.

At the market we went in search of Christina and Yara but could not find them. We consoled ourselves by having a beer at an open air café at the back of the market. Just as we ordered Christina and Yarra emerged from the end of the market and joined us. They starting speaking in Portuguese but the beer was cold and delicious and they seemed to be enjoying each other’s company so I turned off the conversation and concentrated on the stage at the end of the café. There were a group of young men and boys dressed all in white demonstrating Capoeira, a Brazilian martial art that combines dance and martial arts. Graceful and athletic it is wonderful to watch especially with cold beer and a beautiful women

Eventually, they started passing the hat and one of the older boys came to our table. When I reached for some money Elaine said. “No, don’t give this son of bitches any money. It will only encourage them.” I was charmed because bitches came out beeches and it sounded so much nicer when she said things like than I did. Unfortunately, this produced a controversy between the girls. Christina and Yarra felt we should pay something especially since the guy who was passing us the hat was giving us the evil eye. Eventually Elaine relented and we through something in the hat and the guy walked away with a smirk.

We made our way back to the ship, through the same gauntlet we had passed through on our way into town and past the security at the boats entrance into the safety and blessed air-conditioning of the ship.  And there we said good bye. The day before, before I had my Brazilian princesses, I had made an appointment to spend a good part of the afternoon in the spa. It was expensive but it was my birthday and at the time I thought I would be spending it alone. So we said good bye and that we would see each other at dinner. There was no handshake. There was no kiss. Just a wave and a promise to see each other at dinner.

It was on the elevator back to my room that my mind began to churn about the time Elaine and I had spent together that day. She had been a great guide in a city that she had been in many times. I am sure that she had better things, more fun things to do, than to show me around the city. Why was she doing this. Was it a random act of kindness or perhaps she was looking at me in the same way that I was looking at her? I was so attracted to her. She was beautiful. She was sexy and if I stared it her too long certain biological processes happened almost immediately which had not happened to me in many many years. But there was a glow to her as well, I do not mean an aura, a glow. I could tell that she was kind. I could tell that she was smart. But it was something more. Something that I could not my fingerbut I knew I would try to decipher like a codebreaker

My musing and my questioning of myself went through lunch. Surprisingly, since I had been thinking of her, I almost ran into Elaine head on. She looked frustrated and a little angry and told me she was on her way to the pasta station and that her sister and Christina were sitting over on the port side if I wanted to join them. So after grabbing my lunch I walked over and tried to find them but I couldn’t spot them so I sat in a seat facing the sea and watch the sea birds skim over the water and thought of how well Elaine’t shirt had fit that day and how it had perfectly outlined the curve of her breast.

Lunch over, fantasy as yet incomplete, I decided to head to the spa.  I had not walked a 100 feet when I ran into Christina and Yara.  They asked if I had seen Elaine when I said the last I had seen her was on the other side of the ship at the pasta bar, Yara said “That bitch” and they broke away. I spent the rest of the walk thinking about what the relationship between the sisters must be like and wondering what had happened between the two of them that Elaine would flee and Yara would call her a bitch.

I also wondered if I should have told Elaine that it was my birthday and spent the rest of the walk back to my room thinking about the ways I wanted to celebrate the day.