When
lightning strikes, our tour bus skids to a stop. A clap of thunder is
immediately followed by an ominous crack and a giant oak tree crashes
onto the road. Suddenly an entire tree top looms in front of us. The
engine cuts out and, from the driver’s seat, Manny leans
forward to look out the still intact windshield with its view now
completely blocked by leafy branches. He holds up two fingers. “Two
inches,” he proclaims theatrically. “Just two friggin’
inches there was between us and death.”
It
might have been a couple of seconds before we all remember to breathe
again. With the collective intake of air, it’s a wonder the bus
hasn’t caved in from lack of internal pressure. But here we
are, alive. The nuns on my right didn’t even have time to take
out their rosary beads. I notice that the newlyweds in the front seat
are clutching their luggage instead of each other and it occurs to me
that there’s one marriage with an early expiration date. Once
it dawns on us that we are alive and well, however, many do resort to
prayers of thankfulness, a handshake with the stranger in the next
seat or, in the case of our honeymooners, a somewhat repentant hug or
at least that’s how it appears to me. Meanwhile, I am just
thankful to have kept my underwear dry.
The
next decision is made for us. Through the intercom, Manny announces,
with typical British dry humor, that we have the good fortune to be
stranded in front of a pub. No sooner does he get the doors open than
us passengers jostle our way outside and eagerly find our way into
the welcoming tavern. It seems that, in an emergency, God and alcohol
compete for one’s attention. Even the nuns order a pint.
Refreshed
by a Guinness and a pasty (the British version of a burrito) and my
recent brush with death, I am feeling adventurous. I am curious about
this town where we find ourselves stranded. It will be a while before
Manny can get things sorted out and so I decide to strike out on my
own. As a woman traveling alone, I’m usually more circumspect
but I am still cranked up by the whole facing-death thing.
I
step out into the sunshine, glad to leave the other tourists behind
me playing darts badly. The air smells salty and I figure we must be
near the ocean. Come to think of it, in these recent travels, we have
never been far from the sea. There was picturesque Penzance, Madron
with its view of Saint Michael’s Mount, and Merlin’s
Tintagel Castle. Could England really be that small?
Hoping
not to fall into the category of the rude American tourist, I walk
leisurely down the main street. I look in shop windows, pause at the
locked doorway of an interesting stone chapel, and breathe in the
aroma of fish and chips from some nearby residence. I had been hoping
to find a thatched roof cottage. That authentic bit of antiquity
would make my UK visit complete. Yet I am satisfied with these
time-worn brick and stone structures I see along my way.
Then
I pass a street sign that reads “Abbey Lane.” I see that
this road is paved with cobblestones and meanders past rows of
thatched roof cottages and rose covered picket fences. Here is
exactly what I’ve been looking for. I must explore this
picturesque little neighborhood. But first my survival skills prompt
me to make a mental map of my wanderings. I don’t want to get
separated from my tour group and lose my way in a foreign country.
Confident
of my surroundings, I turn down Abbey Lane. Most likely this is not
the Abbey Lane made famous by the Beatles but nonetheless here it is
and I have embarked on my own magical mystery tour. Already I feel
like I have left time and space behind. Nothing is quite real here.
Maybe this is why people travel: to put themselves in a space where
anything can happen.
And
it does. But I’ll get to that later. First, I should explain
that I’m a pretty seasoned traveler and I avoid the touristy
look. Female travelers of my age tend to wear a lot of jewelry,
designer fashions, and comfortable walking shoes. I don’t. I’m
not comfortable with metal ornaments, I dress for comfort, and,
frankly, I can’t afford those expensive Nikes and HOKAs. As a
result, I am sometimes mistaken for a local. In Greece and in Italy,
for example, folks have actually asked me for directions which I find
especially odd because I’m blonde and blue-eyed.
Perhaps
because of my anonymity, I’m happy to report that I’ve
never been robbed. Like I said, I’ve traveled extensively and
therefore I have well-developed street-smarts. I stay alert to my
surroundings, keep my wallet and passport secure, and maintain a
healthy wariness of those around me. Did I mention that I’m
from Boston? There’s no nonsense about this woman.
And
yet, as I saunter down Abbey Lane, it appears that I have fallen into
a sort of reverie. I’ve lost track of time and I have no idea
where I am or where I’m going. As if in a dream, I float past
each adorable cottage with its abundance of roses, breathing in the
heady floral fragrance. I exchange smiles with a woman sweeping her
front stoop. The postman rides past on his bicycle and gives me a
wave. It’s a friendly neighborhood. I’m thinking I could
live here.
When
I hear a beeping noise, I’m reminded of my alarm clock back in
my apartment waking me to start on this journey. Then I focus on my
current reality and recognize the sound of my tour bus backing up. I
have to get back. I turn and clumsily trip on a loose cobblestone,
almost bumping into a young man walking his dog. While I’m sure
it was my fault, he apologies for his dog being in my way. I’m
impressed by how unfailingly polite the locals are out here in the
countryside.
The
young man and his dog continue down Abbey Lane while I hurriedly make
my way back to the tour bus over in the next street. But before I
reach the corner, I sense the presence of someone beside me.
Instinctively I feel a rush of anticipation as I turn toward him. His
face is so familiar and yet his clothing is from a much earlier
period in history. I understand that he can only be someone from
another lifetime. Clearly my reality is about to take another detour,
in this case, transporting me far from the south coast of England.
This
scene is happening out of time. What I mean is that time and space
fall away. I am standing on a hillside. All around me, I see
whitewashed houses with blue tiled roofs overlooking the Aegean Sea
below. The island is called Santorini. The day is hot, oppressively
so, yet I am comfortable, dressed in a loose fitting tunic and
wearing sandals made from goatskin. I don’t know how I know
this and it doesn’t concern me. All that matters is that I am
with him. Miraculously, our lives have
somehow
intersected once again.
We
are a couple, native to the island. I am a weaver; he is a fisherman.
Through many lifetimes we’ve been together. He has been my
brother, husband, son. Being with him now, I am filled with joy. I am
alive. Each one of my senses wakens to a vibrant energy. I am not
separate from creation; I am part of it. As I stand by his side,
memories surface. Without speaking, we know each other’s
thoughts. Our lives have been entwined, in one way or another,
throughout the years from one century to the next, caught up in the
human drama. I am swept by a feeling of compassion for all who have
walked this earth and for myself. I realize that all I need is right
here in this moment. I am complete. This is the cessation of longing.
And
now he is going away. Somehow I understand that I will not see him
again. There will be a storm and his ship will be lost at sea. But,
meanwhile, we get to share this moment in time. Incredibly, across
continents and centuries, we have been reunited. How awesome is that?
Talk about getting a sense of closure!
His
ship is ready to depart. I hear the ship’s horn. In an instant,
space and time rearranges itself. And here I am in a quaint country
village on the south coast of England. There is no young man or dog
or woman sweeping her front stoop. There is no soul mate about to
depart on a ship from Santorini. There’s just me, this
middle-aged American woman traveling alone. Eventually my conscious
mind will try to make sense of the incident and ask why I was given
this review of past lifetimes. No doubt, back at home, my rational
mind will analyze the hell out of the event and possibly convince
myself that it didn’t really happen. But, you know, it doesn’t
matter because for now I will simply savor this awesome experience.
Just
up the road and around the corner, Manny sounds the horn again.
Clearly, this is not the plaintive faraway call from a waiting ship;
that was from another lifetime. This call from the tour bus is
unmistakably bringing me back to present tense. Now the sound is
louder and more urgent. If I’m going to catch my ride, I’d
better make tracks.
I
am, of course, late to board the bus. I get a nod of welcome from
Manny, cheerful as always, but a decidedly unchristian glare from the
two nuns. The newlyweds are unreadable, each of them preoccupied with
a cell phone. With a sense of relief, I sink into my window seat. The
bus moves forward and heads for the main road. Lulled by its
movement, I lean back, close my eyes, and let my mind replay this
afternoon’s psychedelic experience.
I
can understand your skepticism. But, believe me, there are these rare
moments out of time that could very well be recollections of past
lives. Let’s face it. Life can get pretty boring without the
occasional blast from the past.
Contact
Valerie (Unless
you
type
the
author's name in
the subject
line
of the message we
won't know where to send it.)
