Dream Lover

The October tour of Venice ended with a sunset gondola ride. I sat alone in the back, watching them holding hands, the seventy five year-old newlyweds giggling like teenagers, the long-married couples smiling as they silently gazed at the dreamlike scenes of Venice passing by. One couple had taken me under their wing and our conversation continued as we glided along. “But how will you meet a man and get married if you are never in one place except to do your laundry? Sure all this traveling may be interesting for now, but you need someone to go home to, to make a life with.” Somewhat defensively, I replied, “I have my son,” realizing as I said it how foolish I sounded. As if a twenty eight year-old man sat waiting in his college dorm for Mom to visit. We were close, but he had a life of his own now and no longer needed Mom to be nearby.

I had been leading so called senior tours for three years, which gave me the opportunity to visit five continents, and twenty-five countries with scarcely time to repack, study my new assignment, and leave again. It was a challenge I enjoyed for the most part, but I sensed it was time to stop that day when I sat envying my passengers, feeling isolated and alone.

Attempts at marriage had been trail of heartache and disappointment and I had long ago accepted that ‘forever after’ was an empty phrase in these modern times. One divorce, one widowhood, many serial monogamous relationships interspersed with years of celibacy. The most recent romance, an engagement of six years to an Egyptian, eventually faded due to our long separations. I had no regrets. The frequent flyer miles I accumulated were phenomenal and each interlude nourished my addiction to romance.

Over time, I began seeing a different kind of love in that shared by my more seasoned passengers; a deep caring and tenderness that seemed to grow stronger over years. “There isn’t time at my age, this kind of love builds over a lifetime together. I am already 41!” I told myself. And yet, here were the seventy five year-old newlyweds giving it their all for whatever time was left. I admired them and wished I had such faith in love.

My romantic artist self kept resurfacing with renewed hope and I found myself imagining a partner beside me, someone to share my deepest thoughts and feelings, to walk the spiritual path together. I fantasized about a Venice honeymoon and hoped that when he finally arrived we would not be too old for passionate sex.

I vowed on that evening in Venice to return one day to this most romantic of places with someone I loved. I sent my prayer and intention out into sunset, imagining an arc of pink light from my heart to his, wherever he might be. The how, the details, and logistics of our meeting, I left to those angels of love that surely must still exist.

Months later, in a dream I was on a crowded train, standing toward the front of the car. The train came to a stop and everyone exited except one man at the far end. Exotic looking, dark and handsome, he turned and looked directly at me, smiled, and nodded in recognition. I was touched by his gentle expression, the deep dimples that appeared when he smiled, softening the intensity of his features. Upon awakening, I wrote in my journal and gave the dream the title ‘dream lover’. I give all my dreams a title in order to recall them more easily later. This one, however, I felt certain to remember and it haunted me for many days afterward.

A few months later, he appeared again in a dream. This time we were doing a slow mirror dance, a practice I recalled from modern dance classes at college. As our gazes locked in harmony, we flowed together, never touching yet moving as one. Although no words were spoken, there was a feeling of being seen and understood; this strange level of intimacy was disconcerting after so many years in my private world. Anonymous in foreign countries, walking alone for hours, the occasional flirtation, that was my idea of true freedom. Awakening flushed and embarrassed by this exposure of my inner self, I realized how unprepared I might in fact be for the day-to-day intimacy of a real relationship. The dream meetings continued; sometimes we would pass each other on busy streets and again he would nod and smile. I began to look for him in my travels to no avail, and after many months decided perhaps it was all just wishful thinking. There were more pressing matter to think about than this phantom dream lover.

In December of that year, my father’s worsening illness forced me to cancel all of my upcoming travel assignments while I immersed myself in the many agonizing decisions about his care. He had been ill for many years, and it seemed he had exhausted all strength to pull through this time. He was transported to Boston for months of intensive care, making visits difficult. In his drugged state, he chose to believe he was still on his beloved Cape Cod and would hear nothing to the contrary. Mom was wracked with guilt at not visiting him daily, and both of them were failing from the ordeal. Twice he was given last rights and became comatose. Each time, with the first step Mother took across the threshold of his room, his blue eyes would open and he would softly call her name.

“Here is my little bride,” he would say proudly to everyone present, lapsing back into the coma the moment she left the room. This psychic bond between them was remarkable and I wondered if either could ever leave the other. The long winter months ahead were cold, dark, and sad and I forgot about the dreams. Being the true Irishman he was, Dad left the earth on New Years Eve for a great party where no doubt his many friends had gathered to greet him. After fifty-two years of marriage, Mom was without her best friend and soul mate. As we left the national cemetery on that icy cold day, she held the folded flag to her heart. Waving weakly as she looked back one more time, she softly said “Goodbye, Joe, I love you”.

The dreary weeks dragged on and I moved as if in a daze, my sleep void of all dreams as my body recovered from deep exhaustion. Then, one cold, dark morning in late January I was surprised to receive phone calls from three women friends in various parts of the US. Unknown to each other, they had each gotten the message in meditation that it was time to journey to Egypt. “Who else would I go with, you have been enticing me with stories of Egypt for years and now it is time. What do you mean your not going?” The calls kept coming. “Whatever tour you have scheduled, I don’t care what it is about, I am on it!” said my friend Nancy.

I had been scheduled to lecture at an international conference on reincarnation in Cairo, but had given my notice to cancel when it looked as though the end was near for my father. Although Egypt is my second home and a place of great joy and healing for me, I was so deeply exhausted with grief and a horrendous head cold that I could not imagine going anywhere further than the local grocery store. However, another call came within hours, this one from my son’s closest friend Heather who is like a daughter to me. “I’m coming to Egypt with you this time; can we room together?” I do not often room with anyone, but the excitement in her voice was so touching I had to consider. I told her I would call her back, beginning to sense there was some higher plan unfolding of which I was unaware. Not having the inner reserves to resist, my stubbornly logical mind gave in and I for once I was forced to let myself be carried along.

Destiny took over and with no effort on my part a group of 10 had formed and I was off to Egypt, to meet up with over one hundred spiritual seekers who had joined from various parts of the world. Getting out of the US in a major blizzard was an initiation in itself. Logan Airport was closed and a frantic chase began for trains and taxis to get to JFK. Even in this, it was as if the way was made clear and my little group convened just in time for final boarding. The final six women strolled in with carefree laughter as I rushed to greet them and hand them boarding passes. The only disturbing element was a handsome young man who accompanied them.

Where did he come from? Striding, clipboard in hand, I asked him directly in my crisp tour manager voice. “I am in your group. I signed up last week for the conference.” he replied, undaunted. Apparently, he had shepherded my ladies to all the connections and assisted with the absurd number of suitcases they were checking in. They seemed quite taken with this stranger, huddling around him and chatting as if they had found a long lost friend. I overheard talk of ancient Egyptian architecture and sacred temple complexes. So, he is one of those self absorbed Boston architects, I surmised, smiling. I wondered if he had any idea what he was getting into with this spiritual tour.

Finally settling in with my headphones, meditation music and eyeshade, I began my well-established ritual of attempting to sleep on a long flight. Just as I started to doze off, he called my name from a few rows back, saying he was certain we had met before. Rolling my eyes, I replied, “I am certain I have heard that line before.”

He went on to describe a specific fall day at a major Boston hotel and how he had tried to strike up a conversation. I had to concede, he was right. We had been in the same piano bar/restaurant where I was briefing for my next assignment with another tour manager and he was moonlighting as a bartender. I recalled that he could not accept the fact that I wanted nothing but a glass of water and a cup of tea. Eager to memorize the itinerary of my next tour, I had brushed aside his attempts to make conversation.

Suddenly, his nametag flashed into my mind, ‘Ruben’. The name had an angel/devil feeling and went well with his appearance. How odd, the insignificant things that the subconscious mind retains without our awareness. I shrugged and sat back down, beginning to put my earplugs back in. “Wait, why are you being so rude toward this nice man?” Heather asked. “Something about him just bothers me. He thinks he knows me.” I said. I wondered myself if that was the whole story. What was it about him that so disturbed me? Dismissing it as jet lag, I drifted off for the duration of the flight to Cairo.

The Mena House was the perfect setting for the conference and I was greeted upon arrival by the bellmen and front desk staff who echoed “Ahlen we Sahlen. Welcome home.” I finally began to relax as the large group convened, baggage and head counts were done, and all was in order for the two weeks ahead. Yet, that man seemed to appear wherever I went. Rushing to find tissues to blow my constant-running nose, there he would be, casually leaning against a column next to the rest rooms. He seemed never to run out of romantic one-liners and I became amused at how he could say such corny things with such seeming sincerity.

“You have the biggest, most beautiful blue eyes I have ever seen.” Flinching, I would wonder how he could overlook my red nose and rims around my eyes from so much crying and coughing. I felt I was truly a mess, and the last thing I needed was someone focusing this kind of attention on me. As he opened the conference door for me, I could not detect a bit of sarcasm, only an awkward nervousness as we parted and returned to our seats.

Still, I had my reasons to avoid him. In fact, I ran through the list daily to be certain I had not overlooked one. After all, I was working now; he was younger than I, and excessively handsome in that dangerous Latin way. He could not possibly find me attractive. I was just another conquest, a ‘yellow tail’ as I heard blonde women referred to in the Caribbean. Surely, they had a similar saying in Latin countries. I would not be another conquest, nor did I have the slightest desire for a quick affair.

Besides, half the women in the conference were obviously smitten by him. He was likely married as well, and wildly promiscuous. My friends one by one urged me to go to dinner with him; I sensed that they were all in on this matchmaking scheme now and probably betting on whether I would relent. No, I was certain he was a bad risk and totally unsuitable.

The conference ended with a farewell party on the roof of my friend Fayed’s house, overlooking The Sphinx. We watched the sound and light show from this vantage point and then local musicians began arriving and the dancing and feasting went on into the night. From the rooftop, the stars seemed close enough to touch and the cool dry air was magical. I felt my heart beginning to heal as I stood looking over the Giza Plateau and the night sky, recalling the many magical years I had spent here.

People began saying goodbye, a difficult thing to do when a deep spiritual bond has formed. We had journeyed the length of The Nile, laughed and cried together, discussed our lives and our hopes for humanity.

Across the room, I saw a woman hugging him and kissing him goodbye. Our eyes met and for a second I felt a pang of jealousy that surprised me. Making my way across the room, I was waylaid by the diehard final group of dancers and so joined in, knowing that it would be a while before I would have the thrill again of dancing to live music in Cairo. Finally making my way over to him, I said goodbye in the most casual way I could, although my heart was racing.

“Actually, I am not leaving Egypt yet. I booked three extra nights at the Marriott Palace downtown.” I thought he must have been joking, that my friends were again setting me up. However, it was true; we had each booked three extra nights before we had left the US and were also on the same return flight to Boston. “Well then, he smiled, I guess you have run out of excuses. Can we have dinner tomorrow night?”

After dinner, we walked in the jasmine scented garden of the hotel, reminiscing about the incredible two weeks in Egypt. He had been overwhelmed not only by the architecture but also by the spiritual power of the land, the temples, and pyramids. I was happy to know that my second home and place of my soul had affected him so deeply. “ I will never be the same after this, he said, smiling wistfully.” Looking up at his face in the starlight, I suddenly recalled the dreams I had written in my journal. That was the face, the smile, the gentle presence that I had encountered in my dream.

Our flight left on Valentine’s Day and we flew home, wrapped in each other’s arms beneath the thin Egypt Air blanket. “Would your wife like something to drink? The flight attendant said, thinking I was asleep. “She’s not my wife, not yet” he replied. Oddly, I was not at all annoyed by this arrogance and I smiled as I allowed myself to imagine this possibility.

We honeymooned in Venice for twelve perfect days. He said he had always dreamed of going to Venice, but only when he could share it with someone he really loved.

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