Which way to the harbour?

“Which way to the harbour?”

The voice originated from below his line of sight, but such a sweet soft melodic voice, a voice which would always uplift his heart to this very day.

He looked down, and there was the vision of beauty. She looked harassed. Close up, the instant impression was of her sparkling blue eyes, glistening; two fine glass crystal orbs of delicate blue, flecks of light blue radiated out of a darker blue circular halo edge, piercing, intelligent, confident, full of wonderment, yet so innocent. It shocked him, in that heartfelt moment of wonder and awe. Up close; she was even more beautiful. She had an open smiling face, but it was those eyes that captured her innocence, her vulnerability. Then, there was a hint, a promise of laughter, adventure and mischief, but suddenly concern and worry lines appeared around the edges of the mouth. All these delicious hints and nuances were eclipsed, submerged behind those laser blue eyes, as she waited for his response.

It took some time to gather his thoughts. It was the same girl he had seen across the street, and now this vision of beauty was talking to him. Momentous events like this in his life go into slow motion, a slow motion that is remembered for a lifetime, as it was for him a lifetime changing moment. He knew it. In the absence of speech being generated from his stuttering mind, he was helped by the mannerly gentleman mode on autopilot mode, as he answered.

“Yes, I’m headed there, I can show you, if you want.” He offered cooly, but his heart was racing in anticipation.

The bizarre day, a sometimes-frustrating day, suddenly became a spectacular memorable day in his lifetime.

Only hours before he was being jostled by passing traffic as gusts of wind tucked as his baseball cap, generated by their velocity, and sometimes lifted his sunglasses trying to escape from the perch on his nose. He continued his progress to the immigration office, his laptop bag flapping against his suntanned body dressed only in shorts, T-shirt, and flip flops. The traffic was busy as he entered the town, and drove down to the harbour, parked the scooter, and started walking to the immigration office for his interview. He had all the documents and attachments in a plastic folder and was prepared for an interview with the Turkish official, stumbling to understand his Turkish words and instructions.

He found the office. It was old, old desks, old chairs untidily placed for the interviewees. He approached the elderly looking male officer, he seemed to be the senior of two other girls seated in opposite corners of the office. Each desk stacked up high with files, and paperwork, each officer’s attention was on the screen of the computers perched on each desk. He sat down beside the man with a faint white moustache, and waited to get his attention, which was continually being challenged by the computer screen. The man finally looked up and took the file of papers from his hands. The official thumped the keyboard with his plump fingers, and studied the on-screen details, his online submission. Finally, the official scribbled on a template like form and handed it to the patiently waiting applicant. He looked back at the official with complete ignorance of the Turkish writing on the form, with pleading eyes, and a mouth drawn downward in an expression of hopelessness.

It was a painful and tedious day as he struggled with the lengthy process. He remained a dumb, helpless, and ignorant bystander, sometimes getting guidance in English, as inch by inch he made progress in the world of Turkish officialdom.

It was on the busy street that he caught sight of her, across the road in the crowd. She was distinctive, in one of those flowing dresses with a high bodice, green motives stood out against a pure white background, the dress looked expensive, he thought. It was her bright blond French style cut that caught his imagination and created a photograph in the mind. She looked interesting. It wasn’t just her stunning looks, or her easy skipping but purposeful striding gait, there was something holistically that was intriguing. She was someone that stood out in the crowded streets that day, as they passed each other on the opposite side of the road.

The immigration system still didn’t have an update of the details. He went back to the top of the town, to get a reference number that would confirm the transfer was completed in this bureaucratic nightmare. The dreaded hour of five pm struck, but at least he clutched in his sweaty palm the scribbled number, but the final immigration submission had eluded him. At least for that day. Inch by tiny inch he thought in his conciliary mind.

The mental and physical stress was evaporating with the cooling temperatures of the early evening, as his slower walking pace took him down the street in the direction of his parked scooter. He stood under the shade of a tree at the crossroads, waiting for the pedestrian lights to change to green, and then a voice came out of the hubbub of street noise. The voice of his angel, lost, and in need of a modern-day knight full of knowledge and direction.

They walked together down the sloping hill to the habour, the conversation came so naturally, she was an open book about her day, staying in Torba, taking the bus to town, problems changing money, problems with her credit card, her day, no detail, or emotion was spared from his listening ears. After the stressful turmoil of his day, it was comforting to listen, and he felt lightened by her company. There was a feeling of both being in a mutual bubble, separate from the passing pedestrian traffic as they strode down the crowded street.

“Shall we go for a glass of wine?” He inquired. It was pushy, but in the short duration of time that had passed by, he felt confident to ask this vision of beauty.

“Yes, sure.” It was so natural, the reply from his desiree.

“There’s some wine bars near the marina, let’s go there.” He suggested.

He felt the closeness of her warm body, she was lean and fit under that loose flowing dress, she felt so at ease in his company, his inhibitions subsided, he wanted her, and it felt natural. They found a small wine bar and sat on the high stools and high tables on the decking in front of the pedestrian traffic. The evening sun beamed down, on that early October day, and their conversation was rich and plentiful, as they started to learn about each other, not just today, but the broad strokes of their lives. Her life in Finland, Russia. His wandering life. Talking with freedom, open, no pretense, no falseness. He was still wearing his black baseball cap, and dark glasses, she asked him to remove both, as the Chardonnay’s appeared, softly weeping from their appearance into the warmth of the evening.

She stared long and hard into his face, and was silent for a moment, and then she said.

“I have met you in another life!” 

“Can’t you remember?” She kept staring into his eyes.

“No, not really.” He admitted with surprise to her searching eyes. Those piercing sapphire blue eyes were not just searching for his outward appearance for his reaction, they seemed to be internalizing something in her mind, trying to remember a distant memory.

“Yes, we were married, in the days of ancient Rome, you were a doctor, and we had a son. Can’t you remember the bedroom, the curtains?” She continued.

“There was a tragedy, I was too outspoken in society, and our son, and I were murdered.”

He laughed in embarrassment, but she continued.

“I believe in spirituality, and you and I come from the same planet, and we have already lived many lifetimes, and like a never-ending book or play, we come into and out of each other’s lives.” She said this with conviction. This was her belief, and she wanted to share this with him. It was a private intimate confession.

He didn’t think her doctrine was totally strange, he always kept an open mind, but she was so sincere, she made it all seem credible.

She smoked. He didn’t, but the mixture of wine, and the heady atmosphere of her company made him hunger for a cigarette. The bubble that they had created in minutes, was the stuff of dreams, time was standing still, as the world was spinning, people were moving in the periphery of his vision, but he felt like he was in a bubble with her, it was a strange feeling, a feeling of finding someone unique, it was the start of him falling in love with this stranger.

They both became light-headed not only with the glasses of Chardonnay, but the conversation was potent, a conversation of discovery, of bonding. The essence of her words still lingered on, graphically painting a picture in his head of ancient Rome, he had the emotional feeling that they were two reincarnated souls having found each other in this moment, this life, their lives. It was incomprehensible, but there was a feeling in his heart and head, in his intuition, and it all made sense.

Is it possible the lines of our lives are marked by crossed paths that come, and go without our knowledge or consciousness, only to be hidden under a miscellaneous file in our subconscious. Is it by fate or by chance these crossed paths appear in our lifetime, possibly many lifetimes, or are we the captains and heroes of our own destiny, sailing forever forward with never a glance at port or starboard. The anchor had settled on the depths of his soul, as the momentous day had heralded a turning point in his life and started with those simple words.

“Which way to the harbour?”