First You Let It Go

Balboa Press

Contents

Chapter 1. Finding the Rhythm.................................1Chapter 2. Carpe Diem.........................................11Chapter 3. Into the Indigo....................................19Chapter 4. Letting Go.........................................29Chapter 5. The Land Down Under................................35Chapter 6. Cave Hill..........................................47Chapter 7. Back in Time.......................................51Chapter 8. Coming to Terms With the Enemy.....................57Chapter 9. The Dawn of Happiness..............................65Chapter 10. Lost in the Labyrinth.............................71Chapter 11. Where Marble Columns Lie..........................79Chapter 12. The Smell of Coffee...............................87Chapter 13. Do the Unthinkable................................97Chapter 14. Pulled into the Fado..............................105Chapter 15. The Countries Merge...............................113Chapter 16. Going Home........................................125Chapter 17. Afterward.........................................135Chapter 18. What Now?.........................................139

Chapter One

For more than twelve hours, I am detained and restrained, held down with a belt, secured in my place by the aisle as muted sounds of movies merge into the engine's drone. Flight attendants walk back and forth, with smiles glued patently on, offering pillows and books and drinks and things, but they never offer what I dare not ask, and that is permission to leave. I am confined in a corral where strangers drag their butts in front of my face, and I must do the same. I am stuck in a rut of cynicism, worn raw by melancholy. Thousands of feet above earth and sea, all I see is blackness outside the windows, and the murky recycled air is laden with stagnant breath and anxiety.

Suffocating thoughts and the sleepless night conceal all sense of time; but when the ribbon of dawn's early light flashes through the windows, I am jostled from my malaise. All blackness vanishes as the solar blaze saturates the sky, and the flawless glow of a new day transforms my cynicism into enthusiasm. Emerald gems of land are scattered beneath me, like loose beads from a broken strand, and my curiosity is aroused.

Back on earth in the hours before most people drink their first cup of coffee, I follow the crowd through brightly lit corridors of polished floors and fluorescent lights. The walls are but an empty space, without a sense of art or taste, and only trash cans mark the lines of things we must consider. All fresh fruit, dried meats, dairy products, tea, coffee, crackers, and bread are forbidden, or severe penalties will ensue. I add my trail mix to the cache of food and follow the lines past two hefty swinging doors into another expansive room, sectioned into yet more walkways.

Signs direct travelers to the "Nothing to Declare Way Out", or the "Goods to Declare Way Out". I'm holding a form that says: "Travelers who fill out the quarantine section of the arrival card incorrectly risk an instant fine of $200. Serious breaches of the New Zealand biosecurity laws may also result in a fine of up to $100,000, or a prison term of up to five years." Intimidation wins this round. I don't know what to do or where to go, so stand in the smallest queue, hoping for assistance and clarity.

A middle–aged man—his few remaining strands of gray hair combed precisely over his balding head—stands in a small cubicle at the end of my queue. He's dressed impeccably in navy blue pants, a white shirt with epaulets and a blue tie, and watches me with unsmiling eyes. "Do you have anything to declare?" His vowels and consonants spill from his tongue in a way unlike the English that is spoken at home. I say nothing for a minute, taken aback by his dialect.

"Anything to declare," he repeats. I say no, and he directs me to another queue that leads to long metal tables that stretch along the walls. More uniformed officials scrutinize underwear, outerwear and toiletries. When they get to my bag, my boots are confiscated. Mr. Official Guard seizes them with a look of contempt, and marches to the end of the room behind closed doors; no trace of dirt or pine needles or cow dung is to remain, for fear of Mad Cow Disease.

"Take your bag and wait. Over there," he commands. I close my back and stand where directed, watching people pick up their bags and leave. Someone returns my boots, but Mr. Official Guard shakes his head and sends them back to the cleaning room. People pass me by, one by one, until hundreds of my nearest and dearest travel companions leave me behind.

Eventually, I receive my sanitized boots in a clear plastic bag. I keep them upright to keep the mysterious cleaning solution from dripping down my clothes and onto the linoleum floor. My passport is stamped, I am free to go. In some way, I manage to deal with the backpack, shoulder bag and my new translucent boot bag and head toward the exit.

I'm an obstinate crone—not a feeble old woman, a hag, or a shrew, but a contemporary woman past menopause, with stamina and verve. Legends insinuate that a crone has a treasure–trove of life experiences and wisdom tucked within her belly, but I struggle with the concept of being wise as much as I struggle with my new, mail–order backpack.

With unfamiliar awkwardness, I lift it first to my hip and then gyrate a little as I hoist both straps to my shoulders, and wrap the remaining strap around my waist. With a couple of clicks, my pack is fastened and I walk through the outer doors of the airport into the lemon–colored day. My goal is to discover who I really am, beyond the parameters of family, friends and possessions; to surrender my habitual way of looking at things; and to freely experience whatever appears as it appears.

Buses circle the driveway like cows walking single file to be milked. Each one pulls up to the curb and doors open with a guttural moan. People emerge and walk away. With another hiss of bored indifference, the front doors open and people ascend the steps, disappearing into the body. I board the bus that follows the well–worn trail to town. We pass fields swollen with pools from yesterday's storm, and rain–swept streets still dark and damp.

After a while, the bus driver tells me when to get off. Even though I can't make out most of what he says, his cheerful, "G'day!" makes everything seem to be all right. I walk to the end of the block, turn right and half a block more, to a cream–colored two story Victorian house that's been converted to a backpacker hostel. The entrance faces the driveway.

Stepping out of the sunlit sky, I enter a hallway plastered with posters for reggae concerts, drumming circles, CD release parties. I maneuver around the backpacks stacked against the wall and ring the bell at the counter. The sound clinks into the void. No human voice responds. I wait. My fingers peruse the brochures for skydiving, bungee jumping, and floating down rivers into caves to see glowworms. Stillness pervades the lobby as self–doubt reverberates in my mind. And so I sit, then sink, into the sofa, and share space with pillows, dog–eared books, and crumbs from who knows what.

What am I doing here? What was I thinking? I don't belong. I'm too old. I'm all alone. If I don't understand the way they speak the English language here, how will I survive when I travel...