A Blast from the Past

Blast from the Past

When lightning struck, the tour bus skidded to a stop. A clap of thunder was immediately followed by an ominous crack and a giant elm crashed onto the road. Suddenly an entire tree top loomed in front of us. From the driver’s seat, Manny leaned forward and kissed the still intact windshield. He held up two fingers. “Two inches,” he gasped theatrically. “Just two friggin’ inches there was between me and death.”

It might have been a couple of seconds before we all remembered to breathe. You could almost feel the collective intake of air. It’s a wonder the bus didn’t cave in from lack of internal pressure. But there we were, alive. The nuns on my right didn’t even have time to take out their rosary beads. I noticed that the newlyweds in the front seats had clutched their luggage instead of each other and it occurred to me that there’s one marriage with an early expiration date. Once it dawned on us that we were alive and well, however, many did 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 so it appeared to me. Meanwhile, I was just thankful to have kept my underwear dry.

The next decision was made for us. Through the intercom, Manny announced, with typical British dry humor, that we had the good fortune to be stranded in front of a pub. No sooner did he get the doors open than us passengers jostled our way outside and eagerly found our way into the welcoming tavern. It seems that, in an emergency, God and alcohol compete for one’s attention. Even the nuns ordered a pint.

Refreshed by a Guinness and a pasty (the British version of a burrito) and my recent brush with death, I was feeling adventurous. I was curious about this town we found ourselves stranded in. It would be a while before Manny made his calls and modified our travel plans and so I decided to strike out on my own. A woman traveling alone is usually more circumspect but I was still cranked up by the whole facing death thing.

I stepped out into the sunshine, glad to leave the other tourists behind me playing darts badly. The air smelled salty and I figured we must be near the ocean. Come to think of it, in these recent travels, we had 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 walked leisurely down the main street. I looked in shop windows, paused at the (locked) doorway of an interesting stone chapel, and breathed 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 was satisfied with these time-worn brick and stone structures that I passed.

A side street beckoned. Its cobblestone street lined with whitewashed cottages and rose covered picket fences invited me to explore. But first my survival skills prompted me to make a mental map of my wanderings. Although I had my passport with me and I’d found the Brits to be extremely polite and helpful, I didn’t want to get separated from my tour group and lose my way in a foreign country.

Confidently, I turned down Abbey Lane. Most likely this was not the Abbey Lane made famous by the Beatles but nonetheless there it was and I had embarked on my own magical mystery tour. Already I felt like I had left time and space behind. Nothing was quite real here. And I realized that this is why people travel: to put themselves in a space where anything can happen.

And it did. 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 tourists of my age tend to wear a lot of jewelry, the haircut du jour, and comfortable walking shoes. I don’t. I’m not comfortable with metallic accoutrements, I cut my own hair, and, frankly, can’t afford those expensive HOKAs. As a result, I am sometimes mistaken for a local. In foreign countries folks have actually asked me for directions, like in Mexico City and in Rome, which I found especially odd because I’m blonde and blue-eyed.

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 New York City? 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 rose covered border, 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. No. Quickly I realize that it’s the tour bus backing up. I have to get back. I turn and clumsily trip on a loose cobblestone, almost falling into the arms of a young guy walking his dog. I mumble an apology. Too embarrassed to look him in the eye, instead I bend down and pat the terrier. The dog sits and accepts my attention, giving me time to gather my wits. When I straighten up, I find myself staring at a familiar face. That’s when my reality takes a little detour.

This scene is happening out of time. What I mean is that time and space fall away. I stand on a hillside. All around me whitewashed houses with blue tiled roofs overlook the Aegean Sea. 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. I am with him. Again.

We are a couple standing on the pier. He is known to me as I am to him. Through many lifetimes we’ve been together. He is my brother, husband, son. Being with him, 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.

When I take his hand, memories surface. Without speaking, without words, we know each other’s thoughts. Our lives have been entwined, in one way or another, throughout the years from one century to another, 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 compete. This is the cessation of longing.

And now he is going away. Somehow I know that I’ll never 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 finally getting 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, a middle-aged American woman traveling alone. The young man and his dog have walked on. Eventually my conscious mind will no doubt forget the incident or, back at home, perhaps my rational mind will analyze the hell out of it. And, you know, it doesn’t matter because right now I’m happy.

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 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.

The End