Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.
― Rumi
there was a man in Baghdad who took his good fortune for granted and squandered it all away. In the midst of his misery, he had a dream telling him of a great treasure, buried in the faraway city of Cairo. The dream felt so real that he set out on the long and unlikely journey to find his treasure there.
Even then, Cairo was a sizable city and the man was a stranger there. He was sure he would know the spot when he saw it, but he didn’t know exactly where in the city it was. The man had nothing and had to beg for enough to survive. In this shame, he chose to wander the city at night, to feel less seen as he begged.
As in the story of the The Rooster, he had the misfortune of being a stranger wandering the streets at night when thieves were getting rich on their misdeeds. So it was that he was picked up by the authorities. There was no one to vouch for him, no way to prove that he was an honest man.
He pleaded with the man who was arresting him. He explained why it was that he had traveled from Baghdad to Cairo, the voice, the treasure. His would-be jailer believed him, because there is a part of us all that recognizes truth when we encounter it, but also because he had had the same dream.
He had been told of exactly such a treasure, but it was not in Cairo. He was told to find it in Baghdad, in a such and such a backyard. He had not been fool enough to travel all that way for a dream, but now he cried to see the fool who had, and to believe that it was true. So it was that our poor man was free to return to Baghdad, and as unlikely as it had seemed the spot that was described to him was in his own backyard and so that is where he dug, and found all the treasure he would ever need and more.
– Paraphrased very roughly from Rumi
I am grateful for all that I experienced in Portugal, and for the much needed break. I had dearly needed to get away from my life. For two months, I had been able to set down the burdens I had been carrying. I admit, I take on things I don’t have to. It’s a line I can never quite discern between what is rightfully my responsibility and what became my responsibility simply because I was the idiot who picked it up.
My life was simple in Portugal. I had school, and I had work. I loved lots of people there and back home, but I was not tangibly responsible for any of them during that time. The break was sorely needed. Much to my surprise, though, after only two months, I was ready to go home.
It seemed like a perfect bookend that the Work Bestie had flown up to visit me right before I left for Portugal and I would be flying down to see him right after Portugal. I anticipated the couple of days I would have at my apartment as sort of a long layover until I could get back to my love.
The bookend I had not expected was that everything was going wrong. Getting my passport in time had been incredibly stressful, but I had no such worries for getting home. Maybe that was my first mistake. Not being worried really should worry me more.
The last Metro to the airport that night was going to be too early for my flight, but the first Metro of the morning might be too late for an international flight. I love airports and had booked my flight times based on good fares, knowing that sleeping in airports might be a result. Still it is never ideal.
Lisbon’s Metro system is my favorite public transit. Getting to the airport, and even through customs at that late hour, was as easy as cutting cold butter with a hot knife. Finding a place to comfortably sleep, a little less so. I settled on sitting at one of the closed eateries with my head on the table, the way the teachers would have us rest them when it got too hot for us to do anything else late on a June afternoon. Eventually, the morning staff started flowing in and the airport came back to life.
The flight from Lisbon to Heathrow was uneventful, though it ran a little late. At some point in planning the trip I googled how long it should take to get from point a to point b in Heathrow and while I was cutting it close, I wasn’t too worried. I should have been more worried. I rushed my tired, asthmatic self valiantly, with the odd respite of standing completely still on the shuttle between terminals.
Despite only a sketchy sense of where I was going, I got to my connecting flight so close to the wire that I received applause when I stumbled in red faced and wheezing. It would be several hours before I learned that my checked bag did not have my cinematically timed good fortune. Don’t be like me kids. Give yourselves plenty of time to navigate transfers, especially any place as massive as Heathrow.
Flying out of London in the summer of ‘22 was slightly upsetting. I had never been to Portugal before, so the heatwaves and wildfires had just felt very familiar to this California girl. The British Isles, I had seen before, though. I remembered how amazingly green it had all been in ‘98. It seemed like if you stood still too long the moss and grass might overtake you. This time I was flying out over straw bale blonde hills, the color of fire season.
Normally, this sort of sight would have sent me off into some sort of existential crisis pondering oncoming climate apocalypses. Nothing could bring me down on this flight though. I had just spent the summer living and studying in Europe. In order to do that I had to be accepted by a university that turns down a lot of people. I had earned scholarships, both for my studies in general and this program specifically. I had been given love and support, both emotional and material by friends and family who are still rooting for me. As far as I was concerned I had just accomplished a string of impossible things.
Also, I was heading home to my man. I’d had to fly halfway across the world to convince myself to just take the W. Yeah, he could have chosen someone beautiful, or brilliant, someone who had mastered all the social graces. He didn’t though. He chose me. For whatever weird and wondrous reason, he had chosen me. Even after the airplane landed, I don’t think my feet touched the ground. I cannot imagine a happiness more perfect than how I felt coming home from Portugal.
BART is great. I mean, it’s not Lisbon Metro, but it gets the job done. Still, it’s a long trek from SFO to University Village by public transit and a weird one while jet lagged. And I was leaving the airport later and wearier after watching the baggage carousel forever hoping for my wayward luggage to appear, and then going through the whole process of trying to track it down.
For what it’s worth, British Airways was very kind through the whole process and I blame myself for booking such a tight transfer. The warmth of their customer service people cannot bend the laws of space and time unfortunately, and it was going to be a while before my bag and I were reunited. Honestly, it’s absence made the trip home a little easier. I may have been too exhausted for handling my own baggage at that point.
I was surprised at just how much the little apartment in family housing felt like home when I arrived. Immediately after moving out of my ex-husband’s house the kids and I stayed with a friend for a few months. When I got a place of my own the Work Bestie was my one man moving crew. The first night in the new house it was just the two of us and we talked until dawn. When the landlord sold that place and I moved into the one right by our shared work, he was there my first night too. When he drove my son, my dog and I to my uncle’s in northern California so I could attend Berkeley, he stayed my first night there too. A place wasn’t really mine until he had stayed there with me.
When I got back to my apartment in University Village the Work Bestie’s energy drink was still in the fridge. On my desk was the pen he’d drawn all over my arm with when he wasn’t getting enough attention while I tried to attend a remote work meeting. In my bedroom, well, there were memories there too. It had been two months and it had seemed like a lifetime, but also, like a moment. The apartment felt more like home than it ever had before, but not as much like home as his arms. I was counting down the days and hours until I would be back in So Cal with him.
I had been hesitant to let him visit me before I left for Portugal. There was such a short window between finals and my flight. I’d never really moved in and the apartment was both under-furnished and overrun with boxes. I didn’t really have enough time to clean it up, and handle my trip prep, and get ahead of my work enough to take a few days off, but I also didn’t want anyone to see my place when it was such a mess. The Work Bestie wasn’t just anyone though.
If he actually wanted to put a ring on it, he would have to be able to deal with me when I’m on empty. This wasn’t going to be a romantic getaway. I didn’t have room for that days before I left the country. We both had work and other responsibilities. I was exhausted before he even got there, but what better way to test drive reality.
It was hard to leave him alone so much, but we both had work to do. Besides, I needed to get out of that scarcity mindset, acting like every minute we spent together could be our last. This was fine. This visit was just a test run. He worked in my office. I worked on my couch. I didn’t let him take me out anywhere fancy. We ordered in. I cooked. We hung out with my son. It was perfectly ordinary and that’s exactly what I needed to see if I was going to put my energy into working out the logistics of forever.
While I was cooking, a cabinet shelf buckled under the weight of my pots and pans making a horrific clatter. I could fix it, but not right then, not with food on a hot stove. He came out from the office and just fixed the cabinet. Not because he didn’t think I could, or because he thought he had to. He just did it because it needed doing and he could and there was no fuss and no muss. That moment, so casually making my life better, saying I got this and then having it, was worth so much more than any more romantic evening could have ever been. Swoon.
Sometimes you don’t get what you want. This wasn’t passion and poetry and dancing under the moonlight. He was everything I needed though. I had a solid partner who had my back. Two months later I was eagerly awaiting our reunion. Much like my passport had arrived just in time for my trip to Portugal, British Airways sent a courier to the apartment with my missing bag in the proverbial nick of time. I unpacked and repacked and headed south.
I had to travel all the way to Portugal to know that my treasure was here in California all along. Finally, I was heading home to the arms of my love. Squee!
Here come bad news, talking this and that (Yeah!)
Well, give me all you got, don’t hold it back (Yeah!)
Well, I should probably warn ya, I’ll be just fine (Yeah!)
No offense to you, don’t waste your time, here’s why
(Because I’m happy)
Clap along if you feel like a room without a roof
(Because I’m happy)
Clap along if you feel like happiness is the truth
Crystal, Clearly 
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