Guides In Gardens Loukia Janavaras   © Copyright 2025 by Loukia Janavaras

Photo courtesy of the author.

After dropping off my husband Andrew at his work headquarters, I decided to drive the rental car to Central Park and check out the Japanese Garden. This was our first trip to San Mateo, California so I wanted to explore and had the luxury to do so on my husband’s work trip. I felt grateful for such an experience.

Impressed with my parallel parking job of I car I was barely used to, I took notice of the precise location to ensure I’d find the car with ease when I returned. It was a hot summer day for the area, so I decided to wear something I never do in the city, maybe on the beach, maybe: shorts. I’ve never liked how I look in them since I was a child, hence I felt brave finally, just shy of my 51^st birthday thinking, my mom would be so proud if she could see me now. How she used to yell to get me to wear shorts on hot summer day when I was a child. How I miss her now that she’s recently gone. So, there I was in black two-layer workout shorts, a black racerback tank top, black sneakers, and black wire rim cat-eye sunglasses. Set to soak up the California sunshine. My long, dark hair was pulled up into a high bun. The sun felt like a warm hug shining brightly but without the humidity back home in Minnesota in early August.

As I exited the car and started walking toward the park entrance, I suddenly and for no apparent reason had a flashback to many years ago, a time when I was walking through the National Garden in central Athens, Greece on my way home from work. I had been living there at the time and dating a man, Dimitri who eventually became my (late) husband. As I headed down the same path I always did, I saw a figure of a man carrying a brown leather briefcase, clad in a plaid jacket and khaki pants approach me. When he got next to me, he stopped and asked me if I work at the university. He spoke to me in Greek. I was working at a private university at the time, but I doubt he meant that one. Since I’m fluent in Greek, I answered him.

“You must have me confused with someone else.”

He paused.

“You’re alone here.”

It startled me.

“No, I’m not alone here. I have a partner and family in town.”

I blurted it out like a reflex, but it was true after all.

“No,” he said, “I mean you are alone here.”

It gave me chills. He reached into his pocket and tore off the corner of a piece of paper and scribbled down his mobile phone and his name (Aris) and handed it to me. I took it, hoping it would hurry him on his way. It worked; he quickly disappeared.

Walking in to Central Park with this past encounter in Athens on my mind, I passed large glass building on my left and saw an elderly woman all in black with dark hair sitting in a chair in front of it. She smiled and waved at me and then she made a motion of perfection with her thumb and three fingers like the Italians make. Wow, I thought. A compliment from a stranger at a distance. It put a smile on my face and let me hate my legs a little less. I walked around the Japanese Garden and took photos of the koi pond, the pagoda, and the teahouse. It’s lovely but small, so I was through it rather quickly and decided to stroll through the park on my way out before heading to Coyote Point, a recreational area on the San Francisco Bay, to do some serious walking.

As I made my way toward the exit, I saw the woman who had been sitting. She was now walking toward me with a cane in hand. I noticed how round her face was and how it beamed like a full moon. She stopped in front of me and asked me where I am from, her eyes deep black licorice nibs. I knew what she meant.

“Greece,” I said.

Her face lit up. I asked her where she’s from.

“Persia.”

She too knew what I meant.

“We’re the same,” she said and motioned between the two of us.

I was so amazed by the exchange that all I could do was thank her and wish her a good day, as I headed back to the car smiling with newly found confidence.

I regretted not taking a photo with her, not asking her name. It’s been a few years, and I still think of her at times. On a trip back to San Mateo for Andrew’s work, I went back to Central Park to see if I could by chance find her again. No luck.

Was she a spirit guide, a sage? Did my mother send her? And how was it that I thought of Aris after so many years had passed? I will never know what happened to Aris. I threw his number away even though Dimitri told me to call him and meet for coffee at Oasis, the garden cafe as he suggested. Dimitri, being the deeply spiritual sort, considered Aris a guide who was sent to tell me something. Perhaps he was.

After leaving the garden that day, I went to Coyote Point as planned and after my walk, I took a break and sat at the marina, thinking, staring at the water and sky. In the far distance, I saw two tiny blue and white flags on a little boat. I squinted and noticed the stripes and cross; they were two tiny Greek flags. A sign, I thought. It has to be.

My husband Andrew and I had been hoping to book a trip. Three weeks after that sighting, we were off on a two-week holiday to Rhodes, our first Greek island summer holiday trip together. Was it a manifestation? Maybe I’m not so alone here after all. So many questions about guides in gardens still remain unanswered.