Blame it on Rio

It is mid-morning, with a gentle sun streaming through the trees of the street are walking long.  The temperature was perfect where you feel neither hot or a cold. The breeze was so gentle it, but it brought with the smells of early summer.  ….honeysuckle, hydrangeas, newly turned earth, and freshly cut grass.  In the distance we heard the sound of children playing: shouting, giggle and screams and with them memories of a distant childhood when summer days seemed to last forever.

The side walks we were on were made of poured concrete,  straight and true, edged with  no cracking, or undermining by the roots of trees, no winter heave. Most of the houses on the street, were set back. This was not a new neighborhood, generations had been raised here with only the regal shade trees, overarching the streets and canopying the yards as witnesses to the families of the past.  Most had  been modernized to some effect with modern windows, paving stone driveways but it did not detract from a feeling of comfort and safety, where children could play without playdates, and evenings were spent at kick the can or catching fireflies.

Elaine is wearing a pair of jeans that fit her as if custom maed, a white peasant blouse, and a pair of Haviannas with a tropical theme. My dress was similarly casual, jeans that were well aged, a navy Lacoste shirt and a pair of blue Asics running shoes. We are holding hands and more ambling than walking.

I said “When I am alone, I normally walk at a pace just shy of jogging but when I with you…”

You bless me with  a smile and say “ Some things should be savored and this does not look like a place where you should hurry.”

I grip your hand a little tighter and say.” Have I told you today…”

“Yes, many times, but I never get tired of hearing it.”

“Well that too, but that is not what I was going to say….what I was going to say is that have I ever told you how much I love holding your hand. How it makes me feel ten feet tall and as small as a child. How it makes me feel like I can conquer the world yet like I don’t want to leave home. How when I hold your hand I feel at peace, comfortable with who I am, and where I am going. Holding your hand makes me feel like I have reached my destination. That I can stop worrying about the journey and just love the living…”

“I probably would have remembered that if you had said that before…I feel the same way….connected and alive, soaring and grounded, like I can change the world but have no reason to….

“Well, finally we can agree on something….” I said in mock sarcasm and kiss you.

We come to a yard where the owners had planted an English garden. It looked a little odd in this well manicured neighborhood but we agree that is  wonderful that some one had the courage to break the mold and that the sienna orange roses tthey had planted were breathtaking.

The block ended in a park. We walk along the crushed stone pathways that wound instead of meandered, and by a pond where several boys were attempting to fish. In a clearing near the pond we pass a small portable band shell that has a banner announcing “Wednesday Night Concerts in the Park.. Beyond it is  a fenced in dog park and several ball fields  replete with bleachers and backstops.

We stop and sit on an iron black lacquered benches with aged wooden slats that are generously dispersed throughout the park. It is a great place to watch the world go by. Roller bladers, dog walkers, joggers, bicyclists and fellow amblers all pass us by. Birds sang from their perches in the trees and occasionally we cohear shouts from one of the ball fields. When I look at you, there is a look of mild consternation on your face. When I ask you reply of  “We have not passed a single sign or place that has given me even the smallest clue to where we are.”

“You don’t say!” I responded with a grin. “Do all places need to have name for you to be comfortable?”

You give me a rueful look “Am I going to have bribe it out of you.”

“What kind of bribe do you have in mind?”

“Don’t past deeds count at all?”

“Sorry!”

“Okay.” Then you whisper something in my ear that seems physically possible but highly unlikely and I reply , blushing mildly “As much I would like to take you up on that proposition…and will at some point….can we put off me telling you where we are just a little bit longer.”

“That was a pretty good offer….”

“I know and lord knows I want to take you up on it but its our last stop and I want to hold on to the suspense just a little longer. But if you really mind…”

You shot me one of your inquisitive looks, you head slightly tilted to one side, eyebows in V formation annd reply “Okay you can have a little longer on your reveal but I reserve the right to change my mind at anytime. “

The park directly abutted a small downtown area. Most of the buildings in the six square block area were from the first third of the last century. There were newer structures peppered among the old,  but the town definitely gave the impression of being established, its roots extending to the bedrock.  Furthering that image was the conformity Signs over the storefronts being identical in color and size. There were no chain stores. Just local businesses who were content serving the community they lived.

We stop at the local barista, “The Perk UP!” for a mocha latte and a chocolate cupcake we split. I ask “What do you think of the downtown area?

“It looks very peaceful.”

“You mean it looks as if they roll up the sidewalks at night.”

“Yes”

“I like it but there is something a little sad about it too.”

“In what way.”

“Did you notice that there aren’t really any stores here are little bric a brac shops and some service establishments but not a lot of places to really shop. No book store or stationers, or even a clothing store. I mean at least I didn’t see any.”

“Yeah”

“I mean this is a charming town and I am sure during its day its downtown was thriving with all sorts of stores for the people in town but they have all been put out of business by chain stores and malls. Now the downtown area is really no more than a shadow, it is still here but is faded.”

I smile

“What”

“Sometimes you do me very well.”

You raised your eyebrows and said “Ah the soapbox”

“Ah the soapbox.”

We finish our coffee, and stroll down the main street of the town. The sun is warm, birds can be heard chirping and our fingers are interlocked.  Occasionally we stop when we saw an architectural feature or some other small item that interested us. Even though I am the tour guide, it does not stop Elaine from peppering me with questions about the town. was delighted. Clearly you were beginning to love this place as I hoped you would.

Why wouldn’t you. I had made it just for you.

We made a left-hand turn onto Cassandra Street. It is lined with evenly spaced Elms, that arboreal columns that shade the street except for few errant shafts of light dappling the lane and sidewalk with light. It is an older part of town, perhaps the oldest but the next block we come upon is a gated lane that contains modern brick town houses. Each of the semidetached structure exteriors are of narrow horizontal mahogany siding with large floor to ceiling windows on the outside. Each has its own driveway and garage tucked underneath the house.

As we turn onto the lane, you ask “Are you going to finally tell me where we are?”

I reply “Can you be patient just a few minutes more. I will give you a full explanation then…but I think you already know.”

You gave me a look that was somehow a combination of “I feel like hitting you in the head with a lead pipe” romantic love (perhaps the same thing)  and say “Vamos”

We walk another half block and I stopped and said “What do you think?” You turn to your right. It is a town home identical to the others except for the deep red Jeep Grand Cherokee in the driveway. I say “Do you want to go in?

You bless me with a rueful look and we walk up a set of gently sloped stairs to the front door and the enter the house through an oversized heavy wood door. We are in a large open floor plan room where the living room dining room are one with a minimally divided kitchen. The floors are wide planked bleached oaks with each siting area with its own run. The furniture is modern enough to match the décor but there are enough older pieces to add warmth. Most of the art on the wall is modern but there is a beautiful oil painting of Botofago bay and also an ancient print of Vienna. The Kitchen is spacious, with a lot of stainless steel and designed so whomever is cooking is also part of the action going on in the other rooms. Light streams through the windows and you can see tiny dust motes doing their ballet.

You nod your head and say “I think I know what you are up to…”

“Care to venture a guess?”

“I will. But, lets look upstairs first.”

We walk a set of floating stairs that have guy wires instead of bannister. When we reach the top there is a small seating area and three doors. One leads to a utility room with washer, dryer HVAC system, and endless water heater. The other leads to a large secondary bedroom, complete with a walk in closet, and with a large window that looked onto the street below. The owners of the house have turned this into an office with a modern desk and another of Danish mid century design. Each is replete with computer screens. There is a couch and a large television at one end. It manages to be business like and cozy at the same time.

The other room on this floor is the master bedroom. At its center is a King sized bed with night tables. A large Japanese print is over the bed and opposite is a mid century dresser with a flat screen hung on the wall over it. The floor is same wide planked bleach oak as downstairs with a Persian carpet under the bed. There are large windows one of which turns out to be a sliding door that leads to a porch that is large enough to fit a table and two chairs. The bathroom is sybaritic. Two sink console, Toto fully automated toilet is heated, acts as a bidet, and blow drys the user, a large glass enclosed steam shower and a tub that is the mirror of the one in the Maldives.

I say “Take off your flips flops.”

When you comply, you gasp “The floor is warm!”

“The floor is heated. No more jumping out the bath too cold floors. The towel racks can also be heated. The designer had delicate Brazilian flowers in mind.”

Hand in hand we leave the bathroom and cross the bedroom and walk out to the porch and sit looking onto old growth trees and the house’s postage stamp back yard. .. Would not want y large with a king size bed The house began with a cupola, with weathervane, with windows on each side of its pentagonal shape. The second floor had turret like structures at its front corners, with large curved windows, and on the ground floor a 12 foot wide stairway let up to a wrap around porch that was empty except for some hanging plants and two wood rocking chairs that stood side by side.

Pointing to the rocking chairs you said “Are those….?” I was too nervous and too emotional to be able to respond verbally so instead I just nodded. It was clear from looking at your face that  that you were touched by my emotions but it was also clear that you were a bit confused about what we were doing here. You put your hand against my cheek to reassure me that whatever the reasons were that we were here that it was okay with you. I turned my head while at the same time reaching up and taking hold of your hand at the same time, and kissed your palm. I said in the lightest tone I could muster “Do you want to try those puppies out?”

You gave me your biggest grin, complete with sparkling green eyes, and dimples and nodded. We climbed the bricked driveway and then the stairs and assumed our positions in the side by side rocking chairs. We held hands as we rocked back and forth and looked out at the quiet street dappled in sunlight and listened to birds happily chirping away in the trees. The shorter of the two little girls came flying by now riding the little boys bicycle. In hot pursuit was the little boy who yelled out “Come back here” with the girl just giggling in response.

You say “So”

“So what…”

“Aren’t you going to tell me where we are now?”

“Come on…. you know!”

“Well its sort of obvious that we are at your house, but I guess…”

“We’re not at my house.”

You turned and looked at me, a surprised look on your face and said “We’re not? Then where are we?”

“We’re at our home.”

The surprised look on your face was replaced by one of mild confusion. It was a look that clearly conveyed to me that you hoped that I would provide you with a more complete explanation on why I was spitting hairs on the differences between house and home. So I said “A house is a place you dwell. A place where you may sleep and eat…A home is a place you live. Do you know what I mean.”

Smiling now you said “I do. It’s a big difference.”

“One of the things I realized shortly after I met you, is that no place is going to be home unless you are there.”

“I know..”

“And one of the things we have tried to do for the seven years of our marriage is find a way to be together always. Our intent from the beginning has been to live together in the US but obstacles keep jumping in front of us.”

“My darling…”

“Let me finish. How to handle bi continental finances is challenging. How to handle your apartments let alone your house have left us scratching our heads. Even when to apply for a green card, so you could come and go as your please, has been impossible to schedule.”

“Darlingo.”

“But we figured out. Well mostly figured it out. You would come and stay in the US for as long as you could and when I could make it to Brazil I would do the same. We weren’t always together but we always knew when we would see each other again.”

I reach over and grab both of your hands “But now this damn Covid19….were forced apart. Traveling is not only risky but also limited. Not like before when you could pick up 10 flights a day from Rio to the US now there are less than that per week from all of Brazil.”

“And…”

“It has forced hard decisions on both of us. I could have stayed in Rio. But it would have been harder if not impossible for my work. Rosie, who was already well on her way to forgetting me, would have forgotten I ever existed. I would have missed my family.

“But…”

“I would have been with you. Or, you could have come with me…”

“You know I couldn’t.”

“I know why you felt why you could not make the journey. What to do about Romeow?  What about Fatima and Antonio? What would happen with the house? The uncertainty of  making it back to Brazil for your pensions. And fear. Traveling through Sao Paulo is scary with what is going on and at our home in Itanhanga at least you feel safe. “

I paused and looking into your eyes.”There are so many places left in the world I want to go with you this journey could go on night after night for years. But at the end of the day, or night, as the case may be, there is only one place I want to take you. Home. I want us to have a home where we are always together. Where parting, if it happens, is brief, and we keep all our suitcases”

You leaned forward and lift my chin with your hand and kissed me softly on the lips. The wind blew and a branch of tree moved just enough to allow a beam of sunlight to shine on us and then we were gone.”

It was not quite dawn and the light coming through the double hung windows of my bedroom was as grey as a bank of fog. There was just enough light in the room to see Rosie asleep at the end of the bed none the wiser of our journey. I lay in my bed propped up on pillows, and you were sit with one leg on the bed and the other hanging off, facing me. Our hands are clasped together.

You say “Its almost dawn.” Leaving the last part, that you had to leave, unsaid.

“I know….I don’t want to be selfish…I have just spent all night with you, taking you places I have only dreamed of taking you…showing you places that are in my heart….showing you my heart. But even after all that I don’t want you to go. Can’t you stay here with me.” I pause for a second and then I added
COME live with me, and be my love,
And we will some new pleasures prove
Of golden sands, and crystal brooks,
With silken lines and silver hooks.

There will the river whisp’ring run
Warm’d by thy eyes, more than the sun ;
And there th’ enamour’d fish will stay,
Begging themselves they may betray.

When thou wilt swim in that live bath,
Each fish, which every channel hath,
Will amorously to thee swim,
Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.

If thou, to be so seen, be’st loth,
By sun or moon, thou dark’nest both,
And if myself have leave to see,
I need not their light, having thee.

Let others freeze with angling reeds,
And cut their legs with shells and weeds,
Or treacherously poor fish beset,
With strangling snare, or windowy net.

Let coarse bold hands from slimy nest
The bedded fish in banks out-wrest ;
Or curious traitors, sleeve-silk flies,
Bewitch poor fishes’ wand’ring eyes.

For thee, thou need’st no such deceit,
For thou thyself art thine own bait :
That fish, that is not catch’d thereby,
Alas ! is wiser far than I.

I could see your eyes mist and I add “My mother would have been very pleased that I remembered John Donne. She always liked his poetry.  “

You say “.If only I could stay…I think you know I would. That nothing in the world would make me happier than crawling into bed next to you and falling asleep in your arms and starting the new day together. I wish that I could do that  today, and tomorrow, and they day after that…until there aren’t any days left but….

“You have to go” I say smiling the smile of those trying not to impose their sadness on others.

You said “Yes, I have to go… but ou were quoting poetry before. Can I give you a favorite verse from TS Elliott.

Home is where one starts from. As we grow older

The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated.

Of dead and living. Not the intense moment

Isolated with no before or after,

But a lifetime burning in every moment.

“Remember home is not a place. It is a state of mind. You are always in my heart. You are always my thoughts. Even when we are apart we are at home with each other.”

You pause for a second, trying to maintain your composure but several tears made paths down your cheeks nonetheless. You continued “From the first, every moment that I have spent with you has felt like I was finally home. That wherever we were or were going to be, as long as it was together, would be home… I loved knowing that the placed you wanted to take me most of all was home.…”but I have felt that I have been home since the first time you put arms around me and kissed me.”

You continue “A lifetime burning in every moment.reminds us that our life exists in moments and that every moment if we cherish it enough can live on forever. That every home like feeling that I have ever given you and that every home like feeling you have ever given me will last as long as we care to remember them.” You paused again and got a very serious look on your face and grabbing my hands said “It is very important that you remember that…promise me that you will remember that.”

I looked at you with what can only have been a confused look on my face and nodded. You kissed me and said “Good!…” You turned and looked at the double windows opposite the bed. The grey pre dawn light was beginning to develop hints of pink and reds. When your gaze returned to me you had done you best to put a smile on but I could sense that there was deep sadness there too. You kiss me and say “I love you.” And, I fall into a deep sleep.

Alexa wakes me at 7AM as I have programmed her to do. However, instead of the normal claxon she sounds to rouse in me into consciousness she decides to play Coldplay.

Steal my heart and hold my tongue
I feel my time, my time has come
Let me in, unlock the door
I never felt this way before

And the wheels just keep on turning
The drummer begins to drum
I don’t know which way I’m going
I don’t know which way I’ve come

Hold my head inside your hands
I need someone who understands
I need someone, someone who hears
For you, I’ve waited all these years

For you I’d wait ’til kingdom come
Until my day, my day is done
And say you’ll come and set me free
Just say you’ll wait, you’ll wait for me

In your tears and in your blood
In your fire and in your flood
I hear you laugh, I heard you sing
I wouldn’t change a single thing

And the wheels just keep on turning
The drummers begin to drum
I don’t know which way I’m going
I don’t know what I’ll become

For you I’d wait ’til kingdom come
Until my days, my days are done

I am not sure if it is Alexa, God or you who have the sense of humor. …playing “Till Kingdom Comes” after our night together. But What I do know is “Til Kingdom Comes.” it is and the perfect way to start this day. So I do.

The row boat was a brilliant white, with teak wood gunwales, and shining brass holders for the oars. The man rowing the boat had a medium brown complexion, short coarse black hair, a broad smiling face, and was wearing an expansive white banded collar shirt with pants of the same color that were equally baggy. Whether he spoke no English or was just politely mute he just smiled and rowed and said nothing to us.

We are sitting on the stern seat of the little boat. You have on an off white sundress, with inch wide straps that offset your brown shoulders beautifully. The dress is  a study in simplicity, flowing and light but with a high waist and a scoop neck that showed off your figure deliciously. If you looked closely you can see the fabric is richly embroidered with flowers with thread that matched the whiteness of the dress perfectly. In your hand is a broad rimmed straw hat, the breeze a too strong for you to wear it. You gaze out on the world through th Oakley Sunglasses I bought you. You like a queen upon her throne; serene.

I am wearing an un-tucked, generously cut white linen shirt with a soft collar and naturally colored linen pants. I wear a Panama Hat along with Maui Jim aviator sunglasses to protect me from the sun.

Neither of us are wearing shoes.

On the seat between us and our pilot is a basket of fruit full of mangos, papayas, oranges, star fruit, bananas and kiwis. Next to it, a tulip shaped terra cotta container holding crushed ice, a bottle of Veuve Clicot, and two flutes buried to their stems.

We hold hands, content not to speak although I can tell you are itching to say something about my hat. Instead we take stock of our surroundings. Our little boat is traveling through a half moon shaped lagoon, bordered by a narrow strip of very white fine sand, and beyond that a jungle of palm, mangrove and banyan trees. The water of this little bay is crystal clear and the sandy bottom reflects the light back up and gives the sea an exquisite hue of pale turquoise. You can see small schools of fish darting across the bottom.

Several hundred yards in front of us is a structure built on thin stilts, standing two meters above the sea. The construction looks primitive with a thatched roof, bamboo walls and wood decking. The type of structure that has been dotting places like this for thousands of years. You lean over to ask me a question but I gently put a finger to your lips. I thought I knew the questions you wanted to ask and I wanted to answer them in private. You understand and for the rest of our boat journey we enjoy the serenity that the sea often provides.  .

We pull alongside a beautifully maintained dark wood dock that is connected to the bungalow. Our guide expertly ties off the boat and with a gesture of his hand asked us to disembark. He follows, with skill born of repetition, with both the basket of fruit and the champagne. We are led up a narrow ramp with a rope rail to a semi circular deck that had a small round table, 4 chairs and a couple of chez lounges. The champagne is ensconced on the table and as the deck had a beautiful view of the ocean, backlit with the late afternoon sun, I thought this a beautiful place to toast our arrival.

However, before we can enjoy the Champagne our guide provides a tour of our bungalow. He walks to a pair of sliding glass doors and opens and with a borad  them, sweep of his arm invites us in. We walked in and reminded at once of the axiom “Never judge a book by its cover. From the outside this place looks like it was designed for those living a subsistence life. The interior is anything but that. Instead, it is modern and would look comfortable in any 5+ star hotel. The beams of the ceilings as well as the floor were polished teak. The king size bed was tucked into the corner of the room. Its frame made of some exotic wood that I could not identify and above it a gauze like mosquito netting that I was quite sure was more for show than real use. There is a small sitting area for indoor meals, a couch that looked suitable for napping, a desk overlooking the sea, and a full range of stereo equipment but, happily, no television. Ceiling fans move in unison off a single motor and a belt drive.

The bathroom is a marvel. Even though it was open air, with just a roof and no walls. It is completely modern with granite tops, a glassed-in shower, and a tub that resembles a diagonally cut egg.

Our guide shows us how to use the telephone to call for room service, …apparently they would row it out to us… how to use the stereo , and where the light switches are. Bowing and without ever saying a word he leaves and rows off into the  and then bowed,  walked out to the boat and began rowing in the direction in which we had come from bathed in the deep yellow light of late afternoon.

You walk across the room putting your hat on the table, shoot me a devilish grin and run across the room and dive onto the bed. I follow with less grace landing with a bump that nearly knocks you to the floor. Giggling like school children you snuggle in, resting your head against my chest you ask “Where are we?”

“We are in the Maldives, in the Indian Ocean.”

“It is que linda.  Like you would read about in a magazine or a travel show.  One of those places that you read about maybe even ear mark the page but that you never think you will ever get to…..

I am laughing. “Its just that is exactly how I found this place. A while ago, maybe five or six years ago, I was on airplane, on some endless business trip and someone had left a copy of one of those magazines in the seat back. I didn’t feel like reading my book so I began to read the magazine. When I got to the article about this placed in literally looked like heaven on earth so I tore it out of the magazine and put it in a file I keep of places that I want to go. I promised myself I would take you here someday….

“I am incredibly grateful for that magazine. I feel like I could stay here forever.”

I replied. “ I am grateful for you….but for right now why don’t we go out onto the deck and open the bottle of champagne. The sun is about to set and the clouds are pink and orange and the sea is changing colors right before our eyes

We walk onto to the deck and I open the bottle of Champagne. Pouring us both glasses I hand you yours and say “Here is to the providence that brought us together and the providence that has brought us here. There is not a day that goes by where I don’t thank the all mighty for bringing you into my life nor a morning I wake up without realizing the blessing of your love. Thank you for being here…thank you for your heart.” We clink glasses and kiss.

The sky is growing dark and just above the eastern horizon a star appeared and I ask “Do you have a poem in Brazil that you say when you see the first star of the evening…I wish I may I wish I might first star I see tonight…”

Instead of answering your say “What are you wishing for tonight.”

I closed my eyes and wished my best wish.

When I opened my eyes you were staring at me as if to ask me what I wished for but I just smiled and I am sure you knew what I was thinking. Not only what my wish was but that there was no way that I would tell you. I said “Hold on” and walked back into the dwelling when I came out I asked “Would you like to dance.”

You stand  up and move into my arms just as the first notes of the song I had chosen began to play  ….

“Dance with me, I want to be your partner

Can’t you see the music is just starting.

And night is falling and I am calling

Dance with me….”

You kissed me and whispered “Good choice and “ your voice trailing

“And what”

“And you still smell great.”

And then you kiss me again and we became lost in our embrace. Our bodies touching but more importantly something deeper and when I could resist it no longer I picked you up and carried you across the threshold.

Afterwards we cling to each other in the dark room neither wanting the closeness to end. Neither wanting  to forget the sensations, the emotions and the intimacies we had just felt. I kissed you and began to speak “I…”

“I know…you don’t have to say it.”

“But I want to shout it.”

“You already have!” I smiled knowing you were right.

Then you say “Our time is growing very short…I am happy to spend the rest of our time here but you said there was one more place that you wanted to show me.”

I say “Have you looked over there!” You turned you head and looked out through the doors. Coming up over the horizon was a super moon so large it rivaled children’s fairy tales.

We are silent for a few moments. And I reluctantly utter, “We need to leave soon but would you mind if we had one last dance together?”

We slip off the bed and walk onto to the moonlight drenched deck. Taking you in my arms, Tony Bennet began to sing.

Fly me to the moon
Let me sing among those stars
Let me see what spring is like
On jupiter and mars

In other words, hold my hand
In other words, baby kiss me

Fill my heart with song
Let me sing for ever more
You are all I long for
All I worship and adore

In other words, please be true
In other words, I love you

Kissing we fell into the moon.

The next transition was gentler if not more dramatic than the last. We are  in a scrub desert. Yellow grasses, stunted trees, and plants that were low to the ground extended to the horizon in a sea of red dirt. It was windless. Not even a breeze, and hot , over 100. The sky was a pale blue with a patchwork of clouds that looked promising but would bring no rain. You could hear in the distance a deep bass sound that had the reminded me of the music I would make blowing over the top of a soda bottle back when soda bottles were made of glass when combined with electronic feedback.

You grabbed my hand and whispered in my ear “Where are we?”

I replied “You can’t guess? I was beginning to think you were able to read my mind.”

“Normally, I can…but this place is so different. Almost, as if, we are on a different planet. No landmarks…just scrub and grass…”

I put on my best Rod Serling voice and said “Pause to consider that somehow, someway in the vagaries of mind travel, your body has been turned in such a way that you are not seeing the most important part of the landscape…the one thing that can you help you identify this place in the Twilight Zone.”

I took you by the shoulders and gently turned you 180 degrees. The new vista showed a group of indigenous 4 indigenous people. One was sitting and blowing into what looked to be a long wooden branch, a didgeridoo, while the others stamped and chanted, spear and boomerang in hand. All were festooned with white and red symmetrical marking over their deep chestnut colored skin. Beyond them, bathed in the persimmon glow of a setting sun, a great red monolithic rock glowed.

You shove by me as you sometimes do when you when you are in a hurry to get somewhere and said nothing. Your silence a testimony to the out of world vista you were seeing.

“My luv, do you know where we are now?”

Not turning your head to look me, still intent on taking in what lay before you, you say “Uluru…Ayres Rock. We are in the outback of Australia.

“I knew you would know. It is why I had you turned around when we arrived. Isn’t magnificent. Just looking at it, can’t you understand why the aboriginal people of Australia have thought it sacred.”

“Its beautiful. I mean it is really glowing like it is a living thing.  I don’t think I have ever seen that color red before.”

“They say it changes color through out the day. Scientists believe its because it does that because its limestone is studed with minerals like feldspar which make it take on the characteristics of the ambient light. For example when it rains it changes color completely again turning silver and black.”

“I love it. I could stand here for a long time and still not see all that could be seen. It is like our mountain, Pedra de Gavea, I have seen it every day for 20 years but it never looks the same twice.” You turn to me and add “ I love it. But why are we here?”

“Platypuses.”

“I don’t understand.”

“When I was a kid and first heard about them I thought they were the be all to end all.”

“The what?”

“I thought they were terrific because it was as if they were made from spare parts. Fur like a beaver, bill like a duck, poisonous like a snake, and laid eggs like a chicken. Then I discovered that Australia had a lot of bizarre animals like Kangaroo’s, Koala’s and salt water crocodiles the size of a SUV. What I did not know then and only learned years later, after reading a book I gave you, “In A Sunburned Country” that was not even the weirdest shit about Australia.  Did you know that ground in Australia is considered a living fossil?” You mean besides the fact that you once made me promise that I wouldn’t go to Australia without you.” You nodded and I said. “I have wanted to come to Australia for the longest time, I think from the time I was a kid and I discovered there were all sorts of weird animals down here like a Platypus. What kid wouldn’t be fascinated with some beast that it looked like it was made out of spare parts….a body like a beaver, a bill like a duck, that laid eggs, that was poisonous to boot. And then to throw on top of it that they had Kangaroos which just seemed like fun bouncing all over the place….well its just so much honey for a bee.”

“The older I got the more the place seemed to grab hold of me. Imagine living in a country that is an island and a continent that has changed little in millions of millions of year. Its soil is so old that it can be considered a fossil because it comes from a different geologic era than the rest of the world. That the remnants of the earliest known life on earth was found off the coast of Australia….and they still exist?”

When I take a breath I can see you are interested but also have that quizzical look on your face that asks silently “Where did all of this come from.”

“Yeah, I know. I get carried away but think but this place is just so cool. It is vast. Rougly the size of the United States with a population that is only about that of New York. And new to Europeans. They only found the place in 1770. So big and so underpopulated that they are literally discovering new things about themselves everyday. Did you know a few years ago they discovered a type of ant, or proto-ant, that was supposed to be extinct for millions of years. From what I understand that kind of stuff goes on here all the time.  It is a country that has the most venomous animals on the planet including the top ten venomous snakes. Add to that it is the only country that was settled by convicts…compare that to the Puritan fathers who permanently screwed up the United States and the “Captains” who settled Brazil., and you get a place that at every turn and in every way seems to captivate me.

You smile and reply “Now I know why you got Yankee and Rosie from here.”

“ You know better. Yankee came from down under because I couldn’t find any Labradoodles in the US and Rosie came from here because Yankee was the best boy ever.”

“So why haven’t you been.”

“Because you wouldn’t let me. Remember this is where I wanted to go on our last trip but you wanted to go to Asia…and as usual you got your way.”

“Paul.”

“Okay. You were right. Australia is not a country you visit on a cruise. But we need to find the time because this is a country that will take at least two weeks. You would need that just to get beyond the 20 hr flight from New York. …But two weeks probably wouldn’t be enough. Three would be good but four almost perfect.”

“Well we don’t have that much time right now. In fact we have only a couple of hours left. So are we going to stick around here and see a few places or are we off to see another place right away?”

“Just one more place here and then we can be on our way…But before I could take Elaine to our next destination  we are approached by two Aborigines. Dark brown skin with broad foreheads and pierced noses, their hair is wild and matted. They wear nothing but a loin cloth. The older of the two seemed very excited and came up to us and  beraged us with a torrent of his native tongue. Circling around Elaine he sniffed and stamped his feet. To Elaines credit she just put on her beatific smile and allowed the old man investigate her.

The young one began to speaking English flawlessly albeit with an Australian accent telling us “My grandfather is very excited to see your friend. His says that there are many spirits here but he has never seen a spirit such as your friend. He wonders whether she is an evil spirit or good. He says it doesn’t matter as both exist here as we need both to exist.”

Taken back a little I say “She is not a spirit.“She is my wife.”

The young man translated what I had said to his grandfather who again his let fly with a series atonal sounds and clicks. The young man translated. “No. She may be your wife, but she is also a great spirit.  At which point he paused, and his grandfather and he exchanged a few words and said “It is hard to translate but he is wondering if he can go walk about with you. He seems to think that you travel in an interesting way and I can’t really get this word but it sort of means you are just going to be there….does that make sense to you…anyway he wants to experience it.”

Elaine and I exchanged the glance that couples sometimes exchange when you are trying to decide who will speak for both of you when neither one of you wants the job. How do you explain the inexplicable? Elaine as usual won this dual of silence and I try to gracefully explain to our new friends that our “walkabout” was a private one. But we would return one day and perhaps then he would honor us by joining us”

When the old man heard the translation of my words, he nodded, smiled and hit his didgeridoo on the ground twice and Elaine and I were sitting in a swarm of brown, caramel and cream-colored Labradoodle puppies. They seemed not at all surprised at our presence and thought the best thing in the world was climbing on our laps and competing to see who could like our face the most. They had that great puppy smell and enthusiasm about life only found in puppies and I am sure my face reflected my joy in being amongst. Elaine looked happy as well but in the reserved way a cat lover would look happy amongst a swarm of puppies. I said “Aren’t they adorable.”

“Yes. They are very cute.”

“And…” I said with hope.

“No, my darlingo. Now is not a good time.”

“Wouldn’t it be great for Rosie to have a companion?”

“She has you…”

“But….puppy!”

“One day my love, just not today.”

“Well, as long as we were here it was worth a try….”

I leaned over and kiss Elaine and we are standing in a forest surrounded by trees that are so large that they made us feel as if we were Lilliputians in the land of Gulliver. The tree nearest us looked like it could use its own area code for it was at least as tall as a 25 story building in Manhattan and as wide as a brownstone. I heard “wow” and Elaine pulls away from me and within a couple of strides is standing at the base of one of these amazing tretrees are hands touching the bark.

“I knew you loved nature” I said smiling, “and you love trees…you do after all live in the jungle.”

You shoot me a look that would make any man wish he were wearing depends.

So I add, “These trees, the jarrah and karri grow no where on the planet except here in the most southwestern part of Australia. 50 million years of evolution have flowed to this one place and created these magnificent trees. And in many ways it is the story of Australia in and of its self. Isolated from the rest of the world, species of plants and animals forced to evolve in a harsh climate that can barely sustain life these living things have had to find their own way. I mean in many ways these trees are the platypus of the tree world. Think about back home. We live on continentd blessed with wonderfully rich soil. The earliest settlers were greeted by forests greater than anything they had ever seen before. Consequently, the trees that could survive in the most places excelled and spread across the continent killing off the ones that could not compete. Here in Australia the soil is so poor that most species have little competition.  The only things that could survive are those who could truly specialize themselves. When I read about thes trees it really made me wonder about the nature of competition and what is lost. Do you know what I mean?

“I think so. It is not that competition is a bad thing. It isn’t. It is the nature of everything to compete but that sometimes things get lost in that competition and what we lose can be truly spectacular.”

“Exactly! And also that when you find those things that have survived despite the odds against them, I feel like you should venerate them. Celebrate their survival.” You gave me an understanding look so I continued. “So there is a second part of this story. The jarrah it turns out can only live in soil that is rich in bauxite, the base mineral for aluminum. When commercial interests discovered this, they quite literally believed that they had found the motherlode. You see they could rip down the tree and make a huge profit on the wood and then mine for Bauxite as well.”

“Sakanagi!”

“Exactly, I am against capitalism but often enough the interests of those who are greedy for money conflict with something that is for the common good. Like looking for oil in undisturbed places in the Alaskan Wildlife Preserve.  Not that they shouldn’t but they have to take care not to destroy something or interfere with something that is every bit as precious a resource except that it can not be sold or quantified…….I started laughing at myself “ sorry I didn’t realize that there were soapboxes in the middle of Australian woods. But you know what I mean. I took you here because I wanted to show you something that may disappear and it is important to remember them and protect them but I am also here because it is unique and disappearing. And if we don’t get here soon, we may miss the opportunity. Does that make sense to you?”

You nodded and the splendid forest and its tall canopy of leaves were gone and replaced by a large sky peppered with puffy white clouds and a rolling ocean. We were on a large boat, surrounded by folks wearing wet suits, floatation devices, and scuba tank. The dive master was standing in the middle of the fan tail telling those standing around them.

“G’day folks. Today’s dive is going to be on a part of the Great Barrier Reserve known as the Olympic Reef. This is a wildlife protected area and as such you as visitors are not allowed to touch the reef in any way. The reef itself is a very delicate organism. Touching it can kill it so if you are looking for handholds to steady yourself for any reason do not touch the coral. It is also to protect yourself. There are lots of things in the water and on the reef that can hurt or even kill you. These range from some as relatively benign like a sea urchin which is just painful, to a sea snake or box jellyfish that if they don’t kill you, you will seriously wish you were dead.” He paused for effect “If you see one those blokes out there the best thing to do is just get out of their way. Sea snakes are as passive as they are venomous so if you leave them alone they will leave you alone…..The box just flow with the current so they too won’t come after you but remember they have very long tentacles so if you see them give them a wide birth….Everybody understand?

“Okay we are going to do a drift dive today. Meaning that when we drop you in the water the current is going to carry you a long the face of the reef. The boat will follow your bubbles. When you run out of air just surface inflate your “scuba sausage” and will be right along to pick you up. The reef itself sits about 10 meters and drifts down to about 40. Please keep yourself no deeper than 20 meters as we don’t want to do any decompression today. Does anyone have any question?

As people began to ask questions, I turned to ask you a few questions of my own. You were wearing a purple and black dive skin that looked like it came out of the latest incarnation of star trek. Your PFD was simple and black but your mask, fins and snorkel all matched the purple in your skin. I smiled and said “Nicely coordinated outfit.”

“Hey I didn’t pick this outfit. You did and besides look whose talking blue boy.”

I looked down myself….and I was dressed just as you were except where yours was purple mine blue. “Well at least were stylin! Are you nervous about this. I mean I know you don’t know how to dive but I have seen you snorkel and it isn’t that different.

“I am fine….I think that under the circumstances this is something that I can do.”

“Good. When we get in the water. I want you to lead us down to the reef, that way I can keep an eye on you. Then when we get there and the current picks up we will hold hands and if either of us sees anything interesting point to your eyes and then at the object that you see that is interesting….Okay?”

“Okay”

“If you have any trouble or get spooked in any way just get my attention any way you can and point up and we will go to the surface and have the boat pick us up. And if you run out of air, making a slashing motion across your throat and we will go up. And I may give you the little ok sign with fingers to check on you. If you are ok signal back. Okay?”

Okay…..

People began getting up and walking to the transom of the boat and two by two jumping into the water holding their masks in place with one hand and steadying their tanks with another. We were the last couple to go.

The water felt cool as compared to the warmth we were feeling on deck with all of our equipment and as soon as the bubbles had cleared from our jump, I look for you. You are already slowly kicking for the reef in the crystal clear water. I kicked hard to catch up with you and finally managed to tug on your fins. You turned around and managed to smile through your regulator, your brown eyes luminescent behind your mask. I gave you the ok sign and you returned it and we then, hand in hand, kicked gently to the reef.

When we got there I checked our depth, we are at about 30 feet which was just perfect. As we were above one atmosphere depth there is lots of air in a tank at this depth and no matter how long you are down for, no decompression time. The current was not too strong but strong enough so we could be like passengers at airport on a moving walk way, slowly but easily moving towards our destination.

Once we were drifting, I was free to be a tourist. As we drifted by a large pink coral head, we saw on the lee side of the current, a school of hundreds of silver, blue and yellow fish, moving as a single unit. When one of our dive parties drifted through them, they simply made a hole and reformed.  We see beautiful fans of choral drifting in the breeze, brightly colored parrot fish with their white bills gently biting the reef as their midday meal.

On the far side of the reef, in shallow waters a school of Tuna dart by their big eyes glinting in the filtered sunlight. I see a small opening in the face of the reef and I pull you down to it and shine my light into the darkness. There is the long tapered snout of a lime green moray eel its mouth, with its rows of razor teeth , slowly opening and shutting pushing water past its gills. We  stop at the base of a huge piece of brain coral. I to point out the little things that live on the reef that if you don’t stop and really look you miss like the cleaner shrimp waiting for a grouper to come by to groom, or the little clown fish dancing through the venomous tentacles of a sea anemone.

The dive is over too soon. From the moment the regulator is out of your mouth you bubble with excitement of all we have seen. I bask in your joy hearing only every other word, not because I don’t care but I am more swept in your joy than your words.   Finally, you add “It was just incredible. Who knew something like that even existed. It is like a world that has been hidden from me all of my life has suddenly been opened up!”

I smiled and kissed you and said “Now you know how it is to be in love with you.” You smile and kiss me back.

When I opened my eye from your kiss, we were sitting in a red two-person kayak. You seated in the front and I the back. The sky was grey and low lying, the water a slate grey and calm. The wind was slight but infused with the scent of a cold sea.  Looking around I could see we were at the mouth of a u shaped bay. At its apex, was a blue white glacier that wound into  imposing primal looking mountains in the background. I was just about to tease you about me have to do the hard work, paddling in the stern, a large cracking sound, as if a telephone pole was being broken in two, interrupted me. We turned to see part of the face of the glacier collapse into the sea.

As I turned our little vessel to meet the waves caused by the glaciers calving, I said. “Its hard to believe that it has taken the ice thousands of years to make it back to the sea. It makes me think about the value of patience while at the same time reminding about the brevity of our time here on earth…..”

You said something but it was muffled. it is hard to hear when you are sitting in the back of a kayak and your partner is facing away from you. I told you needed to turn your head because I could not hear you. You showed me your lovely smiling face and said “ My darling, please, next time give a girl a little notice. One moment we are in Paris and the next minute I am sitting in a Kayak. I didn’t even get a chance to finish my Mille Feulle…..”

I knew you were  teasing me but I responded “I am sorry. I promise from now on when I will give you fair notice so you can finish your dessert. And you know where we are.”

You flashed me a smile, with brown eyes full of knowledge. “Alaska…” And, when I nodded ascent, you added “But where?”

“If memory serves we in Aialak Bay, southwest of Seward and a part of the Kenai Fjords National Park. Hey…look over on the right at about 2 oclcok. Do you see that brown thing floating in the water.”

Laying in the water not fifteen feet from us was a large, over a meter long, sea otter. He was floating on his back and appeared to have a rock on his chest on which he was pounding some kind of mollusk shell. We both watched until he got the shell opened and ate what little meat was inside and again dove below the surface. You turned to me and said , “He was so cute and did you see how clever he was in opening that clam.”

I laughed, “If you think that is cool,  look over there.You see that rock outcropping off the port bow, go left about 15 degress and them come in towards us about 100 meters.” Your gazed shifted and just as you locked in a black and white object lept from the sea, rolled over and landed on its back.”

I heard you gasp “Orcas!”

“There is a pod of about 6 of them over there. See their fins sticking out of the water.  I think they are hunting…..” We sat quietly for a while the silence with only interrupted by the t lapping sound of the sea against the hull and the occasional screech from the sea gulls following the whales.” When they had passed beyond a rocky point and out of site.  I said “You asked me to warn you. It is time to move on.”

You turned and said, smiling “It is so pretty here. So peaceful. I feel like I am the first person ever to see this place.”

“I know. Alaska is like that….so unspoiled. You can imagine the world when it was young. Like when you were a child and you found something and were convinced that you were the first person ever to see it. But as much as I would like to stay here with you you warned me our time was limited  andthere are other places in Alaska I want to show you.. Ready.”

“Yes, my love.” And breaking all the rules of seamanship I leaned forward and kissed you.

We are sitting on a mountain top. Below us a long serpentine lake its water an opalescent blue. In front of us, north and on the horizon was Denali. The largest, and tallest, mountain in North America. In the west, the sun was just above the horizon illuminating the lower Kenai delta with dark oranges and earthy reds. In the east, the Chugach range with the sun just about to peak its pink incarnation over the sharp peaks of the mountain.

The air was crisp, and you were cuddled in close both for warmth and for the comfort our touch provides us  You whisper in my ear “I knew you were going to let me see the duplicitous sun…rising and setting at the same time ! But I thought we would see it from the balcony on a cruise to Alaska.

“I know. And perhaps we will. But this place is special to me and I thought it the perfect place to show you that there are some places on earth, where at special times, you don’t have to go through darkness to find the new day. Where darkness is not inevitable but a memory.

You squeeze my hand, snuggle in even closer and ask,  in almost a whisper “Why is this place special to you?”

“You know the story I tell about being with Dad in Alaska. The hike I took on Father’s Day, where I found the bear scat in the woods that I gave him as a present that he kept on his desk for years and now sits on my bureau.”

“Yes.”

“Well, this is where I hiked to that day. And, I remember when I reached here how overwhelmed I was by the beauty while the same time being sad because I knew it was a place that Dad would have love to have seen. I told myself then, that I would soak in the beauty of this place and when I got back, I would use every skill I had in storytelling, to tell him about this place. That moment on this mountaintop made me realize that age and infirmity was making Pop’s world smaller and that if I wanted to help feed his wanderlust, I would have to share my journeys with him.”

“And.”

“Everywhere I go, even now after he is gone, I think about how I would describe where I am to him. To have the answers ready for his questions.”

“And.”

“I miss him.”

You burrowed in closer and squeezed my hand and for a while watched the sunrise and sunset at the same time. Then you leaned forward and just before kissing me said “Thank you for bringing me here.”

The room was dark. It was late enough and overcast enough so that there was little ambient light entering the room through the two double hung windows opposite the bed. The sound of the air conditioner buzzing faintly in the background. Not because it was one those steamy, tropically damp nights we occasionally get here that remind me of Rio but since my return to New Jersey I need to hear its purr as it reminds me of our bedroom in Itanhanga.

Rosie was doing her imitation of a bagel on her under the curtains.

I lay on the bed, the blue and white duvet tossed aside, my favorite pillow tucked underneath my neck. Having fallen asleep reading my iPad lay closed on my chest. When I  awakened only minutes later, panicked and searching for you only to realize that you were five thousand miles, and pandemic away. I sighed. It is always difficult to fall asleep without you. It is even more challenging to fall back to sleep without you after a a acute reminder of how truly far away you are.

As I lay there, eyes shut; I pondered how I was going to fall back to sleep again. There were options. The pharmaceutical method…but I am not fond of Ambien, they leave me mentally foggy and physically sluggish the next day. Besides, Dad had ingrained in me a great suspicion of pills to solve problems, so I try to avoid them when I could.  Of course there was that exceptionally nice bottle of Bourbon, so tasty that it practically beggeds me to pour a glass every time I am near it. The problem with alcohol is while it puts me to sleep it also awakens me hours later with a craving for water and something sweet. I guess I could should just cut to the chase. Sugar always knocks me out. And I did have a healthy supply of Van Leuven’s Salted Caramel Ice Cream in the freezer.

All of those things require that I get up.  I was far too comfortable to even consider that. Perhaps a prayer would help? You know that I am not religious in the sense that I go to synagogue weekly but, to me, prayer is meditative, providing an opportunity for thankfulness and grace, allowing me to move beyond my day and find rest.

“Dear God, thank you for the beautiful day. I appreciate all the opportunities that you have given me to see the beauty in the world and all the opportunities you have given me to love, cherish and understand. I ask your patience and understanding missing seeing some of the beauty you sent my way and ignoring or misjudging some of the breaks you sent my way. Allow me to continue to feel the pain of others so I know when to lend a hand or open my arms. When I have lacked patience forgive me and help me do better the next time.  Please look after Marissa, Mark, Catie and Oliver…they bring me joy. . And please shine your love on Elaine. I love her lord and hope that her world is full of all that you can bestow.

The prayer helped. Soon I had that marshmallow feeling  in the middle of my stomach I always get when I imagine you falling asleep in my arms. It is a feeling of connection. Not just to you but to everything. You make me feel as I if  I am capable of changing the rules of nature. That the impossible is possible. Big dreams are possible. As I drift away I think of you.

When I awoke next it is with a start. As if a noise or movement had interrupted my rest and put me on instant alert. The room is dark but I can still make out the shapes and outlines. I can see nothing amiss but here is something not right. I can feel it. As if I am having a dream within another dream. As if someone is looking at me. Not being able to shake the feeling that something is amiss,  I am about to get out of bed and investigate when I hear “Meu Amor”from the other side of the bed. I roll over and see you sitting on the edge of our bed with the smile of a schoolgirl who had just accomplished some amazingly precocious act.

I close my eyes and then reopen them. You are still there. I do it twice more with the same effect. What is that expression of Sherlock Holmes. “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?”

Stuttering, I ask “Aren’t you in Barra.” Your eyes sparkle as if with a splendid secret. quickly I add “I mean I am really happy to see you and all but I am just really surprised to see you here….I just said good night to you a few hours on Whatsapp.  I saw you. You were in our bed in Rio.”

I started to rattle on and you held a finger to my lip and said “Wasn’t it you who told me the story of Haita the Shepherd. What happened to him when he questioned happiness?” Then you  kissed me slowly and in a way that made me suspend my disbelief. I pulled you closer but you pushed me away gently and said “I am here because you wanted me here”

“Yes but…”

“Weren’t we talking tonight about how you wished that magically I could come to Chatham now…No airports, or airplanes to travel through so I don’t have to worry about the stupid virus.”

“Yes, but…

“Well I am here. So don’t question. Time to get up  my sleepy darlingo. Vamos!”

“I don’t understand. Where are we going….

Again I was began to ramble and as you had the first time you held a finger to my lips and kissed me again. “You are so right . I am sorry my luv. I need  to tell you the rules.”

“Okay.”

“Well first you have to realize that this is a fantasy, not a dream.”

“What’s the difference?”

“A dream is something that is made of cotton candy. It looks pretty but the minute you bite into it, it disappears. A fantasy is something that lives at the edge of reality. Just beyond your reach. You can live a fantasy but first you have to imagine it, then believe in it and then maybe if you work hard for it, it can be achieved.”

“Have I told you I love you, today.”

“No you have not. Thank you. But you need to listen.”

“Okay.”

“We can go anywhere you want tonight. You just have to believe in your heart that we will get there one day. Do you understand?

“I do. Are their any other rules, Meu Amor?”

“Yes, darling” you responded smiling despite my impertinence “one. Our trip will only last as long as your dreams. When you wake it will be over. We can go anywhere you want to take me but That means you can take me anywhere you desire pick your places well because our time tonight is limited?”

“But didn’t you say that his was a fantasy. Not a dream.”

“Yes.” And you gave me a look that told me in a second not to question this confounding so I add  sure, I get it. But anything else fair game. This is my fantasy and I can go and do anything that I want to do”

“Yes.”

Despite the low light you look beautiful. Your hair draped around your neck and hung over your left shoulder. The smile is the same incandescent one I saw on my first trip to Rio. But there is also mischief in your eyes. A gleam that told me you know more than you are telling and the secret knowledge pleases you. I see you are wearing clothes perfect for travel. The white peasant blouse I had bought you years ago and jeans that seemed to be made to fit only your body..

I said “We can do anything?”

Suddenly you wearing the black La Perla nightgown I had bought for you.You look perfectly luscious in it. The swell of your breast and the curve of your hips perfectly accented. I may have gasped.

You looked down at yourself and then at me and said, “Not exactly traveling clothes….”

“I know but you look so beautiful in it and its been so long since I have seen you in it and you did say that I could do anything I wanted.”

“I did” and you kissed me again and said, “I am glad that you think that I look beautiful in it but don’t you think it is time to go.”

I say smiling “There you go again…reminding me that it time to go. Have I taught you the “party pooper” song yet?

You giggle and take my hand and pull me out of bed.  We kiss and I said “Vamos?”

In an instant, you are back in your traveling clothes. I wear a pair of khaki colored jeans, black LaCoste polo shirt with a Boston Red Sox cap. I take  your hand and lead you to the windows. I slide it open and with just a touch of mischief say  “Second to the right and then straight on to morning.”

You smile and say “Your name is not Peter and I am not Wendy and you do know that you do know we don’t have to use a window?”

I smile back and reply “I do. But you know me. I need to play.”

Instead of replying, you kiss me,  lightly, but with all the import of our first.

We are sitting at a sidewalk table at the Café Flore. It is early afternoon. The traffic on Saint Germain is buzzing by. The sidewalk traffic is at its French best. Crowded  with elegantly dressed people strolling, with pefectly wrapped bundles in their hand. They have a destination in mind but are in no particular hurry to get there. Young couples are walking  hand in hand oblivious to the hustle and bustle around them. A retiree walks a small perfectly coiffed dog, and several art students walk by with their sketch pads and charcoals. You are sitting facing west looking at the wonderful shops that line that section of the boulevard. I am facing east with a beautiful view of Brasserie Lipp. A coupe Denmark is sitting in front of me and a Mille Feuie in front of you. We both drink espressos.

I must have looked like I felt. Very pleased because you say “Why Paris first?.”

“There are so many reasons…It is a place we have both been before and love but we have never been there together. To me, it is the city at the epicenter of Romantic love. It is a place we should experience together. Perhaps even buy a lock and place on the Ponts des Arts”

You just smile and nod and are silent knowing there is more I want to say. I ad remember that Andrea Bocelli televised concert at the beginning of the Pandemic…Music For Hope?”

You nod. “All of it was so emotional. The empty church. The socially distanced organist. But when he sang Amazing Grace outside the cathedral and they showed images of empty cities….well I completely lost it when they showed the empty streets of Paris. It was as if the world had ended…and I guess it had in a way…but as I cried all I could think about is that I had never taken you to Paris and it made me weep more.”

I guess I started to cry again and perhaps to regain a little dignity I say, “And of course the Addams Family reason.”

“What is that.”

“I always wanted to hear you speak French.”

You indulge me with a small smile for my small joke.

I take a bite of my coupe Denmark, savoring the richness of the ice cream and chocolate sauce when you say.  “I am glad to be here with you. Where shall we go after we finish our snack.”

“You mean after you take me back to the hotel room and had your way with me?”

“Okay that was easy….yes after that….”

“We would walk to Musee de Orsay and spend a lazy couple of hours looking at the art and telling each other what we love and what it is we just like. And then we might walk across the Seine and go window shopping along Rue St. Honore or go for a ride on a Batten Mouche. We might find a small café that looked like a place where the neighborhood people ate and have a meal of simple French food… Steak Frittes or Cassoulet with a bottle of inexpensive Burgundy. On the way back to the hotel we would walk by the river listening to the form one of the party boats passing by. And maybe, being a little giddy from the wine I would ask you to dance. Perhaps it would earn the applause of the passengers on the ships passing us by.”

“That sounds lovely but no Notre Dame…”

“If you want my love, but I think having seen it while it was in its glory, seeing it now, in ruins. The world in tatters. Might break my heart too much.”

“Okay my love…we will see how we feel.”

“But  there is so much more that I would want to do as well… I would want go to a different museum everyday. Not for long just for an hour or so and find the things that most others pass over and savor them. We could go to the open air market and find little bargains or object de arts that we could love together.You know that the type of knick knacks Brazilians love.  I would go for a picnic in some small park and watch the French playing with their children….” I paused looking at your brown eyes sparkling as if amused by a private joke.

“I love your enthusiasm.”

Your comment gives me pause. Not because it was off kilter in some way but because I knew that you were trying to say something to me without saying anything at all. It dawns on me. I add “But I guess it isn’t really the point what we do here. Is it? The point is that this is where I start my world tour with you. It is where the fantasy begins. And that is why we are here just to let you know that. That the first place I would take you if I could.”

You smile then leaned across the table and kiss me and say in the soft sultry lusophonic voice you use when you are moved  and say “So what is next my darlingo.”

I have been thinking about my great uncle Louis today.

Louis was married to my Great Aunt Margie and it is with her that they built a business called “The House of Books LTD” which sold modern first edition books. Their shop which was on the 8^th Floor of a building at 61^st and Madison became a salon of sorts for important authors who had an interest in books and literature. They counted among their friends and customers notables such as Ernest Hemingway,  T.S. Eliott, Robert Frost, Carl Sanderg, Ezra Pound, and Tom Stoppard. Their catalog was an event in the world of letters….

I never met Louis. He had died shortly before I was born but from what I understand from the recollections from my Aunt and my mother who adored him, he had lived a very interesting life. He was an early volunteer in the first world war. He became an officer in the French Army and was awarded many medals for bravery including the Legion of Honor. (I can remember being fascinated by his medals as a young boy as they were kept in a glass covered table in my Aunts living room.) After the war he moved to Paris, and like many of the so called lost generation, tried to find his soul after the most horrible war ever fought. It is here that I believe he made his contacts that would later become his business. It is also in Paris where I think he became a bit of a philosopher.

I can remember being in my Aunt’s shop sometime in my early 20’s looking at these books that were dedicated to him and asking my Aunt about him. She was, as I described, a bird like woman, very small, with dark curly hair and thick glasses and slightly crossed eyes. Not the most attractive woman you have ever met but very sweet and with a real sense of style and when ever she would talk of her late husband she would glow. I can remember telling me how handsome he was and how strong and how he had swept her off her feet. That part of the story never changed. However, she told me more on this particular day. Perhaps it was because I just graduated from college and she thought that I should know more or perhaps she was just in the mood to reminisce about an earlier simpler time of her life.

We were sitting at her desk, bookshelves all around, and some Danish butter cookies from a tin on a delicate china plate she had found in her desk. We were both drinking coffee from Chock Full of Nuts that she had insisted that we put into real coffee cups that were of the same pattern as the plate the cookies were on.

She began by telling me that it had been hers and Louis dream to start a book business.. They had literally hocked everything they owned, borrowed all they could from relatives and even some famous authors like Hemingway to start the business. Nobody thought they would succeed lest of all my Grandmother, her sister  and things were not going well. It seems that they were suffering the slings and arrows of most new businesses. They had bought some books for too much and not sold enough of the others and it really looked like that the business was going to go under. One evening after doing the books she became very upset. Their balance sheet was telling her that if that if things did not change and change soon they would be bankrupt and not only would their dream be dead but also she would have to suffer the humiliation of her sister telling you “I told you so.”

She went to Louis intent on telling him the news but before she could get the words out she began to cry. My uncle took her arms and soothed her for awhile until she could talk and then asked her what was wrong? So she told him about their impending doom and all the fears she had.

It was at this point she interrupted her story to offer me another cookie and when I had taken one she said “Do you what Louis said then?”

I said “No What did he say…”

He said “That love would find a way…and you know it always did. We got out of that crisis when someone came off the street and bought some of the best things from our collections. From then on whenever we reached a rough spot, he would always say…Love would find a way. If you believe…it will find a way….

When I first heard that story, so long ago, I was cynical about its truth. My name may be Paul by I am not a “Paulyanna.” I believed then, as I do now, that not all stories have happy endings. Life and God have funny ways of dashing plans and ruining happy endings. Sad endings are a part of life. Ironically, they are the ones that makes us grow the most.  The sad endings are what allow us to fully understand the value of what we have.

It seemed to me that the idea that love will find a way and the existence of bad fortune and sad endings were mutually exclusive. How could both exist within the same universe?

But age, and the maturity that it may bring, have a way of untangling confoundments.

I have come to believe that love will find a way. But it will not do it by itself. You need to work at it. Like most things in life it will not magically appear. You need to plan for it.  Put yourself in the right place at the right time for it. Strive for it. Love, and its pursuit, is a motivation, not a destination.

Sad endings and disappointing news can serve, should serve, as superchargers for love. When something occurs in our life that is tragic, frustrating or disheartening, the people we turn to first are the people we love the most. They are the ones that help us untangle the wreckage wrought by broken hopes and dreams. Their love helps us find a way. Their love motivates us to find a way past this.

I was thinking about this last night.

Two weeks ago, today, I left Brazil to return to the United States. I very reluctantly left my wife behind.  She was understandably reluctant to travel and expose herself to Covid19. While I needed to return to the US to take care of pressing business, she had no such pressure and as a consequence she stayed. The decision to part caused great angst on both our parts. We are better together and suffer when we are not. But our anguish was mitigated by the knowledge that Elaine had a reservation on American Airlines to come to the United States on July 6. Our separation had an end date and that made it easier coping

Last night American Airlines cancelled her flight. They do not anticipate and will not guarantee establishing service to Rio De Janiero until August. This was devastating news for both of us. We were told that for the foreseeable future RIOgaleão – Tom Jobim International Airport would be closed to travel for the United States. For Elaine to travel to the United States in July she would have to travel through Sao Paulo, the epicenter of the unchecked and unmeasured Covid 19 epidemic in Brazil which is unacceptable.

This is devastating news. We have for the 7 years of our marriage we have led a bi-continental relationship resulting in weeks and occasional months of separation, but we have always known when next we were going to be with each other. Now the only two things we know are the uncertainty of when we will see each other and the hole in our lives we will feel from not being together.

What I am sure of is Uncle Louis’s favorite maxim. Love will find a way.

If Elaine cannot find a way to me, I will find a way to her. I already hold a reservation on their first flight to Rio in August. And if that falls through, as AA reservation have been prone to as of yet, I will find another way. And I will find a way, to bring here back with me.

Because love will find a way.

Frequent flyers are familiar with a phenomenon. When the plane’s doors are sealed a large percentage of passengers either doze off or feel very sleepy. It is a biological response to a sudden drop in oxygen levels. I have never needed an excuse to nap. It is one of my favorite activities and no more so than on airplanes where snoozing cuts perceived travel time. Combine this phenomenon with additional factors such as length of travel, lack of sleep and stress and it becomes a near certainty that your chin will assume a resting position against your chest. So, it is with me. I am asleep before the plane leaves the gate and do not awake until the flight is well on its way to Newark.

I have been cautious on this trip not to think beyond next steps. I found in traveling thinking too far ahead invites disappointment and frustrations. The gods of travel are fickle and too many things can happen when you travel that are unexpected and beyond your control. Especially, in these days of a global pandemic. As a consequence, over the course of the last day, I have focused almost exclusively on the task at hand and virtually nothing about my homecoming.  I wake from my nap thinking of nothing else.

I know that New Jersey has been at the heart of the Covid19 outbreak in the United States. Emergency measures have been put in place regarding what stores and businesses can operate. The wearing of masks in public and social distancing have been mandated. I realized that this new normal along with my federally required 14-day quarantine will make it a challenge to get the basic supplies I need. I have purchased masks from Amazon, and they arrived yesterday. I ordered Emergen C, Zinc supplements and multiple vitamins from Costco in the hopes of giving my immune system all the fuel it needed to run efficiently. CVS had been contacted, my prescriptions renewed and sent to me. Laetitia Vasco, my cleaning woman and temporary caretaker of Rosie, has volunteered to stock my larder so that I have the food and water that I need until I am allowed to go shopping.

I have done what I can to prepare myself for my arrival home.

I think about Rosie. My companion., officemate, cuddler in chief whom I have not seen in nearly 3 months. It is hard for someone who does not own a dog to understand the bond that exists between you. It goes beyond family and friend. With them you share an existing language. Between man and dog, communication develops beyond the scope of linguistic. Only over time do you develop communication that is unique only to you two. As Morley said, “No one appreciates the very special genius of your conversation as the dog does.”  I wonder whether in the three months of my absence, where Rosie has spent time frolicking on a farm full of dog companions and in a home where she was indulged and loved by a little girl and her family, whether we will still share our special bond and communication.

There are these wonderful videos on the internet where soldiers who have returned home after a deployment are reunited with their dogs. The pups go crazy, barking, yapping, tails wagging so fast and hard they blur, running around their persons, often knocking them to the ground just so they can lick their face. This is how Rosie loves to greet those who come and take her to day care. It is how she greets Laetitia when she comes and visits. Occasionally, she has even treated me this way when I have left her in her crate longer than she liked.

Thoughts of Rosie and the homecoming I hope to receive from her fill me with emotion and make me grateful for the single person row in which I sit and for my sunglasses and mask.

I think of my family.

Cate, my niece, and I have developed a special relationship. She is MFN, my favorite niece. She, in turn, started to call me MFU until I decided the initials left something to be desired. We settled on BUE, best uncle ever, which is probably untrue but nice to hear. What I know is that my niece is special. A gifted rider, artist and student she is imbued with integral kindness and a depth that exceeds her age. We never fail to say good bye to each other without three kisses (2 are too ordinary) and playing the I love you more game where we each to play off each other….I love you more than Oreo’s loving fillings…I love you more than fillings love teeth….until one of us capitulates.

Oliver, my nephew, looks like my father which means he looks like me. He is curious, creative and in near constant motion looking for new experiences and exploring life.  Before I left, I introduced him to the television show “Hot Ones” where celebrities and well known people are interviewed while eating chicken wings that range from a hundred to two million scovils. For fun, while I was away , I sent him a hot sauce called “The Last Dab”, which is the spiciest hot sauce used on the show, and challenged him to taste it. If he could last ten minutes without quenching the flames, I would give him $100. He accepted and we did the challenge over Zoom. He has more money that he did before but we are both richer for the experience. I admire his courage and cherish his hugs which are top 5 in the world.

Mark, my brother in law, is one of the best men I know. He is trustworthy, steadfast, and decent. An engaged and understanding father he is amusing in the understated way some Brits are. He has become the brother I had always hoped to have.

My sister will always be my baby sister. Even though she is far more capable of taking care of me, I feel the need to take care of her. When the pandemic had caused New Jersey to be locked down, I found myself trying to imagine what it must be like to work at two jobs (writer and professor) virtually, manage the virtual school of two teenagers while also tending to their fears, stresses and natural energy and having a husband, helpful as he may be underfoot. All while having to deal with the stresses, fears, and anxieties Mom’s feel when they and their family are threatened by an enemy, let alone one that is omnipresent and invisible. It is hard to provide a helping hand or comforting shoulder when you are five thousand miles away. What is a brother to do?

This brother turned to Goldbelly. When my mother had died, Marissa had confided in me one of her major de-stressors was carbohydrates. Cake being her number one choice. Every week I would try to order her something that was difficult under current circumstances, to get delivered to her home. Ove the course of my absence I had sent cakes, donuts, ice cream and even an outlier of Dinosaur BBQ.  My hope was that it would be stress relief and perhaps add a little bit of serendipity into what I imagined a monotonous and challenging day to day.

But I also knew that as much as I was enabling her carbohydrate habit, I was doing it for me. Sending those sweets made me feel as if I was getting hugs from my family.

Now as we are on final approach to Newark, it dawns on me that the homecoming that I could only fantasize for so long, full of wagging tails and hugs, is only moments away and I am overwhelmed by it.

When the cabin door is opened, and we are given permission to deplane, it is as if I am shot from a rifle. I move at speed walker pace down the concourse C at Newark. I pay no notice to the closed shops, restaurants nor even to the very few people have made a choice not to wear a mask. I am focused only on getting to baggage claim where my brother David has arranged for a well-regarded car service to pick me up and take me home in as safe and as Covid free environment as possible. I scramble pass security and negotiate my bags down two sets of escalators to baggage claim. It is empty. None of the carousels turn. No patient passengers waiting for bags. Most importantly no car service person holding a sign with my name on it.

Witty God.

I survey the whole area. I walk down to the carousel where the bags from my flight will be deposited. Still no one. I am annoyed and angry. I almost never ask my brother for favors and the one time I do he drops the ball like a little league outfielder. As I survey baggage claim for my driver, I consider calling David and asking him what is up with his car service or digging through my phone to find the number of the service and finding out about my ride. I reject both ideas. The siren call of home, only 15 miles away, is too alluring.  I dash to the taxi rank.

The cab at the head of the cue reluctantly ends his phone conversation when I approach the taxicab. I see that his mask is dangling off one ear, so I ask him, too firmly, to please put on his mask and let him know that his assistance is not needed with my luggage. He is clearly peeved at my attitude and I feel badly for my tone but not my message. As we pull away from the curve, I try to smooth over any hurt feelings I may have caused by asking if he needs directions. He grunts a no, points to the Waze ap on the phone mounted on his dash and is silent for the rest of the trip.

Route 78 between Newark and the Short Hills Mall is not scenic. It is not even pretty. Mostly shopping malls, light industry and sound barriers. But with every mile passed,  my excitement grows. Home lies at the end of this ride and the odometer can click fast enough. I begin to anticipate what it will be like as I walk in the door to my apartment. How happy I will be to see my puppy and the happy dance she will create when I open her crate.

Home. I am coming home.

We leave the highway and enter Summit via River Road. Years ago my mother told  me that the reason she and Dad had fallen in love with Summit was because of the trees that blanket the town. I think of her now as we drive under the canopy of leaves that shroud the road. She died a year ago yet every time I come home to Summit; I want to call her to let her. Let her know I am home safe. I wish I could call her now. No one welcomes you home like a Mom.

I am grateful that the lights at Morris and River Roads are green as is the one at Kent Place Blvd. I am way too anxious to suffer the delays of traffic lights. Within minutes of leaving the highway the cab is stopped in front of my house. I am home.

HOME!

I scramble out of the cab practically throwing the cabby his fare. Grabbing my bags, I rush to the garage and tap the code to raise the door. But a combination of my glasses fogging from heavy breathing while wearing a mask and anxiousness to see Rosie makes me mis-enter the code twice. I take a deep breath. Allow my glasses to clear and finally plug in the right numbers. I wait impatiently for the large door to rise and I rush in as soon as I can duck underneath it. After nearly 3 months I am going to see my beloved pup and we will have a reunion full of wagging tails, face licks, and yelps that is Facebook and YouTube worthy. I slip past my car, leaving my bags at the door rush into the apartment and make a bee line for the ground floor room where we keep Rosie’s crate.

She is a caramel colored fluff ball which is no surprise as she has not been groomed since January. She is alert, sitting in her I am a good girl pose. She has what appears to be a stuffed gingerbread man in her mouth.

Puppy!

I fumble with the latch on the crate and the door springs open. I wait for the mad dance of joy I was have been thinking about for the last 3 months. But there is no dance. There is not even a wag of the tale. No yelp. No bark. Instead, Rosie, almost reluctantly emerges from her crate. She carefully walks around me and goes to the garage door. Then walks back and looks around the room as if she is looking for something familiar.  Finally, she glares at me with an expression that I interpret to mean “Who the fuck are you? And what have you done with the people I normally play with?”

Hilarious God!

Needless to say, I am disappointed in her response to my return. But I am not entirely surprised. I had predicted for months that her response to my return would be cool. As much as I love her, she is a love the one you with type of dog especially when you give her treats. I should not have let all those wonderful homecoming dog videos on YouTube and Facebook make me forget what type of a dog Rosie has always been. But it would have been nice to be treated like the prodigal son.

The first thing that I do, after calling Elaine and letting her know I have arrived in Chatham, is throw all my clothes into the washer, and jump into the shower. As much as I had anticipated the joy of seeing my puppy, I was looking forward to this moment almost as much. Not just because I had spent the last 28 hours wearing the same clothes and traveling through areas ripe with Covid 19 but because our shower in Brazil required an effort to get wet and where hot water was something that had to be planned out in advance.  Our shower in Chatham is sybaritic. Voluminous amounts of water and pressure. 16 different spray settings. More hot water than I can use in an hour of showers. I luxuriate in soap and suds for nearly 20 minutes. As much as Rosie’s welcome was a disappointment this exceeds my expectations.

I still needed to unpack and do the dozens of other little things one needs to do after a long absence from home. I do none of them. Instead, I decide to just bask in the joy of being home. I put on my heavy blue terry cloth robe and sit on the couch in my study and flip on the television. I have not watched any broadcast television since before I left here in March. I wanted the experience of seeing programming of someone else’s design and in a language that I understand.

CNN comes on first. I have no desire to hear about Covid19 and how it is ravaging the world or for that matter to think about anything of consequence. I just want to put aside all the stress and anxiety I have felt for the past months and especially the last day away. I want to be entertained.  I click to HBO.

The image on the screen is of an animated movie. Two blue parrots are amusingly trying to hitchhike a ride on a hang glider who are attempting to hitchhike on a hang glider. When the parrots land, the hang glider banks and I see the rocky outcropping of Pedra De Gavea, the mountain that looms above our home in Itanhanga. Over the last 28 hours I have traveled over 6,000 miles by planes, trains and automobiles, braved Covid19 infections, washed my hands 56 times to make it home in Chatham, only to find “Rio”, albeit in animated form, here.

Even I have to give it to God. Hysterical, side splitting irony.

I cannot watch it though. Rio good, bad and ugly is real. Watching it “Disneyfied” seems disrespectful to me, so I click up a channel. The flat screen shows an image of a very skinny Tom Hanks sitting perfectly upright and a little dazed in an airplane seat. He is having a conversation with someone off screen who is explaining to him what is going to happen when they reach Memphis. I know immediately the movie. It is one of my favorites: Castaway.

At first, I believe God is having more fun with me.

The movie is after all about the nature of the human condition and isolation. For the last three months, in many ways I have been a castaway from the US. Isolated from my country, my family and my friends and  like the lead character, I am emerging from isolation.

But as I watch the movie, I change my mind. The character played by Tom Hanks undergoes a huge transition. He has been living a subsistence existence forced upon him by a circumstance no one could have predicted. He has learned to live and perhaps even thrive on little. Now, returned, he sees all the things that he has been dreaming of food, shelter clothing mean little to him. He realizes, despite how heartbreaking, that the world has moved on and so has he. With his old life dead, he needs to find new meaning and he begins his quest by looking for the “angel” who saved him.

Perhaps this time, God is not telling me a joke. He is providing a parable.  Covid19 has made us all castaways in one way or another. That, if we are smart, we need to bid farewell to the world that existed before the virus forced us into self-isolation, quarantine, and social distancing. We need to find new meaning in the world that exists today and perhaps the best place to start looking is with our better angels.

Right, Wilson?

There is no playing of the Star Spangled Banner. They didn’t put Bruce Springsteen’s “Born In The USA” over the PA system. There are no fire trucks creating an arc of water to taxi under. There is not even the cheering you occasionally hear when a plane lands after a particularly difficult flight. However, for me it is a deeply emotional moment. One of the few moments in my life that despite the erosion of time on memory, I will never forget. I am home.

For 71 days I have wondered whether I would ever make it back. I have been a castaway on a desert island wondering whether I would ever escape. The island I had been marooned on could not have been more welcoming. It was beautiful if not spectacular. I was as safe as any place can be in a pandemic. I had been with my wife, the one person required for me to be whole. As lush and as pleasant as the surroundings of my marooning had been, I was still stranded. As well fed as I had been, it did not have the flavors of home that comfort and cajole. As safe as I had felt, it was compromised because I had failed to learn the language which made me vulnerable to the indecipherable.

All those days of stress, fear, and doubt are over with the screech of tires on the runway tarmac and I weep.

While we taxi to the gate, an announcement is made about deboarding the aircraft. We are told that Custom’s and Border Patrol have instituted measures to help ensure social distancing. Only 6 rows will be allowed off the airplane at any time and only those who are called may claim their luggage and other belongings from overhead bins. Deplaning will start with the business class section and work its way from front to back. We are reminded that masks are required on board the aircraft and while in the terminals of George Bush International Airport.

When we reach the gate, my section is the first to be called on to deplane. I collect my bag from the overhead bin and follow a now masked Tex off the plane. Normally, when an international flight arrives there is a mad dash of passengers to immigration. Nobody, even those, like me, who use Global Entry Kiosks to enter, wants to be caught in the long lines that are the hallmark of entering the country. There is no need to rush today with only 20 of us exiting at the same time. But I do. Partly out of habit but mostly to separate myself from the other passengers.

One of the things that has confounded me for years is the distance between the planes gate and immigration. Almost without exception, regardless of country or airport, there seems to be a conspiracy to make your walk as long as possible. In Rio, I have measured it on a walking app to close to 2 kilometers. Here at IAH, it is not that long but the trek from airplane to the Global Entry Kiosks is ten minutes.

When I reach the kiosks, I begin the familiar process. First, I slip my passport into the reader and remember just in time to lower my mask so the device can take my picture. I place my fingers on a touch plate so it can read my fingerprints. When they are accepted, I prepare to go through the standard series of questions such as purchases made abroad, have you visited a farm, what flight you were on, etc. But the machine asks me none of those questions just printing out the standard form to hand to the CBP officer. I am not sure why things have changed but I am grateful to be on my way.

There is no line at the Global Entry designated que and I go directly to a masked officer. He asks for my paperwork, which I hand to his gloved hand. I realize that this job which used to be relatively safe has turned into a front line posting on the nations war on the pandemic. The CBP officer is pleasant and asks me what has kept me out of the country for so long. I tell him it was not from lack of trying. That I had five flights cancel on me and that while I hoped to fly home from Rio, where my wife and I had a home, when Trump declared the travel restrictions for Brasil I thought it time to get home anyway I could. I know this is too much information. I know he really does not need to hear my personal story. But there is a method to my madness. When he hands me back my passport and ticket and says “Welcome home!” I ask,  “My wife is a Brazilian citizen and is planning on joining me here at the beginning of July. Does she need to bring any particular paperwork with her to prove she is married to a US citizen?”

He pauses before answering and says “No. We have no directives on what paperwork is required. A declaration is enough. But it probably would not hurt to bring along her marriage certificate and a copy of your passport.” This is a huge relief. I want nothing more than Elaine to join me but I know that she is nervous about being turned around at the border and sent home. Who wouldn’t be considering the Trump’s administrations attitude towards immigrants borders. I just hope the information the CBP officer has given me will ease her fears enough to enable her to travel.

I leave immigration and follow the signs to security. During normal times, even with TSA Pre, this is a choke point due to long lines and the extra scrutiny given to international travelers. Today, it is empty. The maze leading up to the identification check point has been reconfigured into a single line and it has no one in it. I place my bags, computer, iPad,  jacket, shoes, and belt on the conveyor belt. I am scanned without a beep but my bags need to be run through twice due as to insure my CPAP machine and Milka chocolate bars are not instruments of mass destruction. Normally, I would be annoyed at this inconvenience but today I let it pass over me as I am grateful for being in the land of my birth.

As I leave security and begin the trek to my gate, I see Tex once more. He is having a booming argument with some of the security people. Apparently, he did not receive read or the email sent to passengers on our flight that informed us that by Houston ordinance, all people at George Bush International Airport are required to wear masks at all time. Nor did he listen to the post landing announcement on the plane. He is arguing loudly that he does not need to wear a mask. That he is fine. As I walk in search of a men’s room so that I can wash my hands, I find that amnesty on anger has passed.

The golden rule is something that connects almost every faith in the world. “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you” is a principal on which every community beyond one person must be based otherwise chaos would ensue. It is a concept that is taught in Sunday schools, public schools and by teachers and parents alike. I have no doubt, that if I asked Tex what the Golden Rule was he would have no problem reciting its words. Why then does he have such trouble living it? Doesn’t he understand that he has been in Brazil a country that has the second largest infection rate in the world without doing any significant testing and he could be infected or a carrier and not know it? Unasked carriers had spread the infection and brought our country and the world to its knees.? Wearing a mask is an act of kindness to your neighbor and your community and would help prevent needless disease and death. That his not wearing a mask would encourage others not to wear a mask and that could result in him or someone he cares for getting the disease.

I know that what is activating my rage is more than just people not wearing masks. They are just a symbol of a different type of virus that is running rampant through the cultures of both Brazil and the United States, if  not the world. The disease that allows science and facts to be discounted by unproven theories and conjectures. The illness where meme’s are given equal weight to historical fact. The sickness that allows people to express vileness and hatred with a sense of impunity.

The only consolation to both of these diseases is that they have exposed flaws within our society. We can see with better acuity the mistakes that we made both planning for and coping with the spread of the disease. We can perceive more acutely our countries’ divisions and perhaps the paths that will help bring us closer together. The dangers of unfettered social media has been made crystal clear and now we just need to figure out to contain its excesses.

My father loved the punny expression “You can lead a whore to culture, but you cannot make her think.” I pray that our countries learn to think and that we rid ourselves of the “putas” in the White House and in Brasilia.

I am greatly relieved when I find a bathroom located adjacent to the shopping area in the terminal. Not only has the hydraulic pressure reached capacity but I am desperate to clean my hands after the interactions of border control and security. Washing turns out to be a less than pleasant experience as my hands have become chapped and the application of hot water and soap is painful. As a consequence, I go in search of a shop where I can buy some hand cream as I have read that Covid19 can infect through chapped and parched skin.

As in Sao Paulo, most of the shops and restaurants are closed by a combination of lack of business and employees. However, I find a Hudson News open. I am momentarily overwhelmed by the wall of goodies that I have only been able to dream about it in the last few months (Peanut M&M’s, Cheezits, Combos, Frito’s, Reeses, etc. ) in Texas sizes. Before I can pay homage to this wall I overhear an argument between two clerks in the store. The masks they have been given to wear have been contaminated and they cannot be worn. They wonder how they are going to manage customers. I decide that I will forgo the treats and buy only the lotion for my hands. But before I can pay I see they have been blessed by the gods of travel with a shipment of Clorox Disinfecting Wipes To Go. I decide to buy 4 and pay for them and the lotion while standing as far away from the clerks as I can. Then, I return to the washroom for another hand cleanse followed by some soothing lotion.

I walk to my gate through a sparsely populated concourse. Most of my fellow travelers are following the directive to wear masks although some of those choose to wear them only covering their mouths and still others as neckerchiefs. I mumble sub voce curses at them in Portuguese at them but my earlier internal tirade has taken much of the steam from my invective.

The gate area itself is modern. Instead of rows of seats there are a collection of six foot long tables with stools bolted in place and several tablets to enable you to order food and drink from where you are sitting. I find a seat at one of them facing my gate and quickly wipe down counter and chair with my newly acquired wipes. “Apocalypse Now” pops into my head and I imagine Robert Duvall saying, “I love the smell of bleach in the morning, it reminds me of victory…against Covid19.” Clearly, I have been alone too long.

I am too tired to read. I have no patience to find programming on Hulu, Netflix or any of the other streaming services I belong to. I revert to the people game my mother taught me. I look at a young family a mother father and child. The mother and father are doing all they can to keep the child entertained and wearing his mask but they are failing at both. I wonder what has brought them here to the airport. Why would any family, especially one with a young child, want to travel now? Are they returning home from overseas like I am? Have they lost their jobs and are moving to their parents home to live?

I see two morbidly obese men wearing dirty jeans, Heavy Metal T-shirts, baseball caps with sunglasses on the visor and no masks. I peg them as Trump supporters who feel like they are making a political statement while exposing us and them to disease.

This is a game without end but it eats up the time until my flight is called. When it is,  I  am among the first to board. When I take my seat, a single in business class, it hits me. I am on the final leg of my journey. Home, and all it represents, are just a few hours away. I discover that mask serve more than protecting others from the virus they spare them your tears as well.

When the plane pushes away from the gate a few moments later it is a surreal experience for me. Since March 16, I have tried to make my way out of the country. No matter how carefully thought through, every one of those plans had found its way into the circular file. It is hard to accept that the moment of truth has come and the plan has worked.  I feel the elation that comes from reaching a goal and that at long last I was heading home.  But all those high emotions are tinged with guilt.

I know I have incredibly good reasons to be headed home. I have medical issues (a mildly irregular EKG) that were scheduled to be evaluated and dealt with  months ago. My job had been eliminated at the start of the Covid 19 crisis and I have to begin, now that the crisis has eased, to look for employment. While I could do this from Brazil (we live in a virtual world) my focus and efforts would pay higher dividends from our home in Chatham.

I miss my dog. Probably far more than she misses me as she has been more than pampered for months. But, as a person who works primarily out of a home office, she has been my everyday companion for 4 years. When I was alone, she was there. As Christopher Morley said ““No one appreciates the special genius of your conversation as the dog does.” So it has been true with Rosie.

I want to hang out with my niece and nephew. They delight me in every way. They are of the age where talking on the phone, texting, or other type of communication beyond face to face,  is just not worthwhile because they, as teenagers, have far to many activities and distractions.

I can justify going home.

What I have difficulty coming to terms with is the fact that I am also leaving out of fear. As safe as our home in Rio has been, I know that the crisis in Brazil is deepening. The virus is spreading exponentially and with it the chances of catching the disease grow daily. It is far too easy to imagine, especially in the middle of a sleepless night, for me to catch the disease and be taken away to an overcrowded hospital, where no one speaks English, and due to isolation protocols, I am utterly alone. I can forgive myself this fear. I believe that anyone, should they become ill, would prefer to be in a healthcare system in which they have faith and will be communicated with in a language you understood.

What I cannot justify, is leaving Elaine behind. She has her reasons for staying. Both said and unsaid. She has told me that she feels safe in our home. I know that this goes well beyond the isolation of our house and our neighborhood. Beyond the fact we have developed a system to get food and supplies with minimal chance of exposure to the disease. Since long before I met her eight years ago, this home has been her castle, her protection from an often-hostile world, a lifeboat on a unfriendly sea. Leaving it now, when Brazil is on fire from disease, political corruption and travel with me through the belly of the beast is an act of faith she cannot muster. I understand this. Where my guilt comes from is whether I have done everything I can to convince her that coming with me is the best decision.

My father used to tell us about his Uncle Heinrich, his mother’s brother. He was a printer, and because it was an essential service, he was kept in his job even after the war had begun and most Jews had been forced from their occupations. One day, while he was at work, he found out that his wife Risa had been arrested by the SS and taken to a deportation center. He left his job, where he would have been safe, and went to where his wife was being held and voluntarily joined his wife. They were both murdered at Auschwitz. I thought of Uncle Heinrich as a hero. The type of man I would like to be.  Yet unlike him who had sacrificed his life so that his beloved wife would not be alone, I was leaving my wife behind.

The plane reached the edge of the runway and has paused awaiting the towers approval for takeoff. My self-flagellation during the planes taxiing had brought me to the core of my emotions. I will miss Elaine. While countless articles had described how difficult it was for some families to adjust to self-isolation, we had thrived. Not that we had not squabbled but those passed as quickly as a summer storm. For a couple that had lived a bi continental lifestyle for over 8 years, our being together for the last few months proved, if nothing else, that we were at our best when we were together. Leaving Brazil meant leaving her with no certainty when I would see her again. This cut me to the quick.

As the plane’s engines roared to full throttle and we launched down the runway I said a silent prayer to the ultimate Jokester. I thanked him for getting me this far safely and implored him to restrain his sense of humor when it came to Elaine and me. That he allows us to be together sooner as opposed to later and that he keeps us safe in the interim.

The plane lept into the night and as it climbed  I reached for the entertainment system. Over the last twelve hours I had spent entirely too much time inside my head on endless loops of fears and self-doubt. I needed to watch a movie, a comedy or rom com, that would distract me from those thoughts and the whistling Texan behind me.

One of the circumstances of my childhood was the lack of programming on television. There were only six channels and the amount of content was extremely limited by today’s standards. The stations filled  programming gaps with old moview from The Golden Age of Hollywood such as The Marx Brothers, Gangster films staring Jimmy Cagney or Humphrey Bogart o, r even Carmen Miranda films.  They were not serious entertainment. They were meant to distract and uplift people from the depths that the Depression had brought into their lives. They were Celluloid valium. When I see one of my favorites from this era offered, I, without hesitation select it.

If you have never seen “The Thin Man” or any in the series, you have missed one of the great comic duo’s of all time in Myrna Loy and William Powell. Their combination of physical comedy, wise cracking one liners and, of course, Asta the wonder dog, take a very thin plot and make it as intoxicating as the gallons of liquor they manage to consume during the movie. I only wish I had a Martini so as to better appreciate the on-screen fun.

Dinner is served without the usual panache of Polaris Class Service. Instead of cocktails, followed by progressive courses and concluding with ice cream sundaes and after dinner drinks we are presented with a single tray crowded with each element individually wrapped. I am glad that United is taking hygiene so seriously even though the crowded tray makes maneuvering a bit of a challenge. The food is as delicious as airplane food can be from the bits of peach in the salad to the mushroom sauce on the Filet Mignon. I miss my sundae but the chocolate truffles are more than an adequate sweet note to end the meal.

The food and the distraction of the movie serve their purpose.  I recline my seat to flat, cover myself with a comforter, adjust my mask, tuck my pillow under my head and fall asleep.  Five hours later I wake with a full bladder and a stiff neck. I stumble to the john where I take care of pressing business and while washing my hands notice that my hair, which has not been cut in three months, is blossoming into an “Isro.” This amuses me but I quickly lose my sense of humor when on the way back to my seat I notice that “Tex” has fallen asleep without his mask.

To both my credit and my shame, I am not a person who shuns confrontation. In most circumstances I would not hesitate to tell “Tex” that he needed to place the mask on his face. But I did not trust myself to handle the situation with any delicacy or subtly. I doubted he would welcome being awakened by an angry Fro’ed Jew yelling “Put on your fucking mask, asshole.” I went to find a flight attendant instead. She should have noticed this anyway. I found her sitting on a fold down chair next to the galley reading and when she saw me, hurrying to put on her mask. I explained the situation. That United’s policy was that everyone (ahem) was required to wear masks during the entirety of the flight and that my hope was she would enforce the policy with the passenger behind me.

She promised to handle the situation. After I return to my seat I hear her waking “Tex” up, telling him that he must wear the mask even when sleeping. He is the opposite of the booming happy Texan he was upon boarding. He does not appreciate being awakened. He doesn’t appreciate the message he is being given but when the flight attendant suggests he might have to be put in restraints he gives in and agrees to wear his mask.

We still have five hours before we are schedule to land in Houston. I try to fall back to sleep and laugh at myself when I realize that I am hoping sleep will make time fly. I am just about to sleep when I hear an argument behind me. Apparently, Tex had taken his mask off and another flight attendant, this one male, is now telling him that if he refuses to comply with regulations, he will be arrested upon reaching Houston. Tex argues about the amount of money he has spent on his ticket. He mentions his high status on United and the amount of loyalty he has shown the airline and how he, of all people, should not be treated this way. He says that his rights are being violated and tells the steward of his plan to write the head of the airline.

The flight attendant does not argue with him. He is perfectly calm. He tells Tex he can do whatever he wants when he leaves the airplane but for now if he doesn’t put on the mask, he will be arrested upon arrival for disrupting a flight. Apparently, Tex puts on his mask as the steward departs shortly thereafter.

I fall asleep trying to figure out why the inoffensive act of putting on a mask to protect yourself and others seems to be such trouble for some. It is a quandary that has no answer but acts as a soporific.  I fall back to sleep.

When I wake again, the plane is touching down in Houston.

Normally these lounges, especially international lounges, have a full buffet set up for their patrons. They can be pretty lush affairs with a variety of hot and cold entrees, salads, crackers and cheese, soups, desserts.  These buffets are usually greeted by the people who frequent these clubs as if they have never seen food before and don’t expect to see it again for several weeks. There is often sharp elbow play in front of particularly popular dishes and plates are almost always heaped beyond capacity. Seconds and thirds portions are common.

There is no chance for traveler gluttony today. The buffet table is tucked into a corner and covered in plastic. This makes sense. Buffets would be factories for the virus with the sharp elbow play, lack of social distancing and multiple hands touching items. It reminds me of why I don’t eat peanuts in bars any longer.

Which of course makes me look for the bar that is usually the natural accompaniment of the buffet. In many of these clubs instead of a bartender they just place top shelf bottles of spirits on the table and let travelers apply what ever amount of liquid courage required that will allow them to carry on. To be honest, despite the fact that I rarely drink when I travel (short term gain for a double hangover the next day), I feel, given the current circumstance, a little liquid courage is what is called for. It has, after all, been a frightening day, will be a frightening flight, and I have six hours to kill. There is no bar. In fact, when I inquire about alcohol from one of the intermittently masked staff, I am told that the Covid 19 policy is for no alcohol in the clubs at all. Only closed containers are to be served such as water, soda, and beer. Unfortunately, they are out of beer.

Good one God.

I ask for a Guarana (a Brazilian Soda) and a water. When they are brought to me, and the server has walked away, I quickly douse them with alcohol gel. This may seem a little excessive especially considering that most scientists believe it is difficult to get Covid from food but hands touch faces and the nose and eyes can provide egress for the Virus into you. Trust but verify.  And it is not paranoia if someone really is trying to get you. When my drinks are finally ready to be quaffed, I realize that I have another problem. How do I drink, or for that matter eat without taking off my mask ? This is something I loathe to do especially with the two other travelers not wearing their masks and the staff only intermittently doing so. I ponder my dilemma for a few moments and come to the conclusion that you have to eat, you have to drink, and that the only thing you can do with this virus is minimize the risk, not eliminate it.

I drink quickly, replace my mask and then immediately spray my hand with alcohol gel. It stings. My hands are now chapped from the amount of cleanliness, I have forced on them today.

Now what to do for the five and a half hours until my plane boards. With nearly 4 million real air miles flown I have spent more than my fair share of time waiting for flights and, over time, developed strategies for coping with boredom of long waits. I am never without a book or something to read.  Today is no different. My ipad has three books downloaded that I am currently reading but I don’t feel like reading because for the last three  months reading has been my primary source of entertainment. I  have read on average four books a week. I am burned out from reading and as importantly my current stress level will not allow me to focus on the words. Books were out.

A game my mother taught me as a child is another device I use to relieve the monotony of waiting in airports. You look at your fellow travelers and try to figure out where they are from and their backstory. When you have a lounge that only has two other people in it this is not much of a distraction.

I could nap. That certainly makes time pass far more quickly but due to the situation I find myself in, senses on overdrive, and a near continuous supply of adrenaline flooding my system, nappage is off the table.

There is no television. As a consequence I cannot treat myself to watching endless looped cycles of news from CNN .

I am left with Netflix. It is the only streaming service that works out of the country. As such the last 90 days have winnowed down my choices for new programming. I have already binged watched everything from the Crown to The Unbreakable Kimmy Schimdt, from Brooklyn 99 to the Chef Show, from The Office to Arrested Development. To compound the problem, I don’t want to watch anything that actively engages me in anyway. I do not need to think right now as I am already overthinking most things. I want programming that just entertains or distracts. After dithering for what seems like an exceptionally long time, I make a terrible decision and decide to watch the remake of “Dynasty”,  the classic ‘80’s evening soap opera. The show features a predictable and badly written script, mediocre acting, and a distinctly millennial “woke” vibe. Its chief attribute is that, similar to watching a car accident, you cannot avert your eyes. You want to see how disastrous it will become.

Between episodes I manage to eat what the menu calls a Pizza Margherita. I am not sure who translated the menu for the club, but it is not a pizza. It is a melted cheese sandwich with tomato. Not bad as a snack but definitely not a pizza. At some point I become the only person in the club. What makes it creepy is that the staff, some without masks, are staring at me. I amuse myself by thinking about how Stephen King would write this short story. Would a staff member take off a mask and reveal himself to be a clown? Would the airport suddenly be engulfed in fog? I decide that he would likely write this story as is. Being at an airport at the center of the Brazilian Pandemic is scary enough.

Time passes slowly. But it passes. After 4 episodes of Dynasty. Two pizza Margherita (they were small and I hadn’t eaten since breakfast) and 7 hand cleansings, it is finally time to board my flight. As I leave the club, I see there is a cluster of employees at the front desk engaged in “bate papo”  or jaw flapping. Half are not wearing face masks. They are paid to be a safe haven for travelers. They are actions suggest they do not care and it pisses me off.  I leave without thanking them or wishing them a “boa noite.”

My gate, 308, is a ten-minute walk from the American Express Lounge and for the majority of that walk I do not see another living soul. Stores that normally would be packed with passengers buying last minute gifts, souvenirs, and knick knacks are either closed or completely empty. The only sound is that of my footsteps and the wheels of my rollaboard. I wonder, albeit briefly, whether I am the only American fleeing tonight. I am not. When I get within, what was called spitting distance previous to the pandemic, of the gate I see that there are quite a few people who will be escaping Brazil with me this evening. I am happy that most of them seem to be wearing masks although many seem to be using them as mock turtlenecks or faux earrings as opposed to the more traditional mouth and nose coverings. It makes me wonder why people do not take this more seriously. Even if you don’t believe the virus is going to harm you why wouldn’t  you do something innocuous and simple, such as wearing a mask, that would protect your neighbors, friends, and others who may have a less robust immune system than you. Four hundred thousand are dead. You are leaving a country that has the second highest rate of infection in the world without doing any testing. You are leaving a city that has the highest infection rate in that country. Why won’t you wear a fucking mask? I really want to scream sense into these people, but I realize that is tilting at windmills and would likely only get me thrown off the flight. Instead I try to find a place, out of the flow of foot traffic, and away from clusters of people to wait for boarding. But the situation is difficult to manage between more people arriving for the flight and those who feel more comfortable pacing than standing still. So I move from one place to another trying my best to maintain social distance in a challenging system.

Fortunately, I win the lottery when boarding the flight. Not only have I booked a business class seat but in Brazil if you are older than 60 you are entitled to board the flight first. I am the second person on board the airplane and quickly make my way  seat, 1K. The configuration of business class on this airplane is 2 x 2 x 2. I have read in the days leading up to this trip that United Airlines in addition to requiring those traveling to wear masks they will try to accommodate social distancing by keeping adjacent seats open.

My first thought as I settle into my United Polaris Class pod is that I have done everything I can to protect myself from the disease. I am wearing a mask, in the first row so I will be exposed to less people. I am as socially distant as one can be in an aluminum tube. I have wiped my area down with alcohol gel wipes. I sit back in my seat and close my eyes when it hits me. After nearly 90 days in Brazil, five flight cancelations, endless news consumption on Brazil’s losing fight against Covid19, the sturm and drang of leaving my wife behind…not knowing when we would see each again and near constant stress for the past 12 hours, I am going home. I am overwhelmed by the moment and begin to weep.

I am blowing my nose when I hear “Excuse me.” I turn to see a petite woman in a white hooded Tyvek coverall accessorized by wrap around sunglasses, surgical shield and mask and blue latex gloves. For I moment I fear she has come to escort me off the aircraft. God the prankster once again pulling one of his jokes out of the Job handbook. But it is not that. She wants to know if I am sitting in the correct seat because she is booked into 1L and does not want to sit next to another passenger. I assure her I am and she proceeds to have a meltdown in the aisle yelling at the Flight attendants that  she has been promised that she would occupy a row by herself. I turn away as this is a fight I don’t want to get caught up in but I am secretly rooting for her as I don’t want anyone sitting next to me as well. When they find her a row by herself, I am relieved.

The relief does not last long. As I am exploring the entertainment system,  I feel a bump on the back of my pod, then hear the noise of luggage being placed in the overhead compartment directly behind me and finally the booming voice of a Texan saying to one of the flight attendants “How are y’all doing today? I would love a bourbon and the rocks when you can?” It is clear from his inflection and lack of volume moderation this would not be his first drink today. I am grateful when the masked flight attendant tells him that he is required to wear a mask at all time and that due to Covid 19 regulations no spirits will be served but if he would like a beer or wine they would be available.

He loudly apologizes for not wearing a mask and talks to himself “Where did I put that durn thang” as he struggles to find his mislaid mask. He then asks, in a muffled but still unmodulated tone “You got any American beer?” And when the flight attendant brings him his libation, he his loudly effusive in Texan “Aren’t you the prettiest thing. Y’all are so nice. Thank you so much. This probably going to be the best  beer I have had in weeks. You see me getting low you just bring me another. God bless!” I hear the flip top lid pop open, and then the sound of the beer being poured in glass and then a very loud “ahhhhh.” It is not long after that when he begins to whistle.

Couldn’t cut me break, could you God?