Author: Susan Joyce

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Good Morning Diego Garcia—Excerpt Chapter 10

GMDC-seal-300

Trincomalee, Sri Lanka 1975

She grabbed my hand and practically pulled me down the gangplank.

By the time we left the dock and walked along the main road to town, I could feel negative energy building and billowing around us. I stopped twice; once I suggested we go back to the boat.

“Why?” Mia asked.

“So you can change clothes; show respect for the local culture.”

“It’s not my culture,” Mia retorted. “And I’m not local.” She kept walking.

I trailed behind with a growing feeling of dread.

“Come on,” she said. “I want to show you something.”

By the time she neared the entrance to the souk, word had spread about an indecently dressed woman walking the main street in the direction of the souk. An angry, vocal mob awaited her arrival.

I stopped again. Mia shrugged her shoulders and motioned me to hurry up. She was in a defiant mood and seemed clueless to the mounting danger.

“Mia,” I begged. “Please go back to the boat.”

“Why should I?” she yelled back.

“They’re angry at you.”

“Why?” She tossed her long, dark hair aside and kept strutting toward the entrance.

“Because of the way you’re dressed.”

“I don’t care,” she announced, walking on laughing.

As hostility swelled, the crowd grew larger. More villagers joined to show their support.

I stopped every few feet, hoping to reverse this scene.

When Mia reached the main entrance, the crowd surrounded her and began heckling her. They blocked her from entering the souk.
Whap! I heard the loud thud of a rock hit a wall. And another Whap! “Oh my God,” I gasped. They’re attacking her.

Whap! Zap! Thud! I heard Mia scream. The villagers were hurling sticks and stones at her.

“Run,” I yelled, “back to the boat.”

Whap! Whap, whap, whap! Mia screamed again. I saw her turn and push people aside.

“Run!” I shouted.

She took off running in the direction of the harbor, with the crowd chasing close behind. They continued to pelt her with whatever they could pick up and throw.

I slowed to a stop, took a deep breath, and covered my thumping heart with outstretched hands. I listened to my heart beat, and hoped Mia was outrunning the angry crowd.

The Tamil man from the cafe (where Charles and I had breakfast) was standing outside his restaurant as I passed by. He smiled and greeted me in English. “Your friend behaved badly,” he said. “Indecent expo­sure is against the law in Sri Lanka.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.” I shook my head, not believing what I had just witnessed. How could anyone travel the world (as she had) and not be aware of local customs in different countries. A total lack of respect. Chutzpah, as they say in Israel.

 

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Good Morning Diego Garcia—Excerpt Chapter 9

5star-shiny-web
Trincomalee, Sri Lanka 1975

The sun lowered and began its descent. Time to stop for the day and go
to dinner. Alon insisted on staying with the boat, and urged Dylan to
go with us and enjoy an evening out. Dylan agreed, if we could stop on
the way and check on the navigational charts at the ship’s agents office.
The clerk was on the phone when we stopped by. Dylan suggested he
wait and meet us at the Chinese restaurant.

He joined us a few minutes later and announced, “still no charts.”
“Unbelievable,” Mia said, “We’ve been waiting for weeks.”
“What are the charts for exactly?” I asked.
“Nautical charts of the Indian Ocean, from Trincomalee to the
Seychelles,” Dylan answered. “Maps showing water depth, buoys,
obstructions; information which ensures safe passage.”
“They sound essential,” I said.
Mia nodded in agreement and rolled her eyes.
“I’ll give them another week,” Dylan said.

A smiling waiter took our drink order.
Dylan and Charles ordered beer. Mia ordered tea.
“Wine for me, please!” I said.
Since Mia and Dylan had eaten here many times, we suggested they
order their favorite dishes.
They did and more too; wanting of course to have plenty to take back
to the boat for Alon.
“Can you sail without charts?” I asked Dylan.
“Best not to,” he answered, “but if necessary, I can navigate by the stars.”
“Celestial navigation,” Charles said. “I’m impressed.”
Dylan looked excited at the thought, and smiled.
“Your eyes sparkle like Sinbad the Sailor at the idea,” I said.
Dylan laughed.
“You’ve read about him?” I asked.
“Of course. He was a gutsy dude.”
“And story teller,” I added.
“Famous for his adventures and navigational skills,” Charles said.
“He saved a ship and found a map to the hidden treasures of Alexander
the Great. And he had all those fantastic adventures without charts,”
Dylan said.
We laughed, clinked our glasses of drinks and toasted, “L’chaim!
Without charts!”
The food was amazing. We left fully indulged, and I wondered if our
cuisine would be as tasty in the middle of the Indian Ocean. Somehow,
I doubted it.

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Good Morning Diego Garcia—Excerpt Chapter 8

Trincomalee, Sri Lanka

July 1975

We wandered around town and found a small cafe.
“Isn’t this one our taxi driver also recommended?” I asked Charles.
“Yes.” Charles nodded.
We went inside and ordered toasted cheese and meat sandwiches. No
coffee, but tea was served and it was delicious.
“Ceylon tea,” the waiter said proudly. “Best in the world.”
“Your English is good,” I said.
“Thank you! I worked on cargo ships for many years. I sailed all over
the world.”
“Are you a Sri Lankan?”
“Yes. I returned home to look after my family.” he said, looking around
to make sure no one else was in the cafe. “We’re Tamils.”
“We read about the Tamil Tigers in the newspaper,” Charles said.
“We’re calling for an independent state, where we are respected,” the
waiter said.
“I understand,” I replied. “Are the Tamils a minority in Sri Lanka?”
“Yes, and we’ve formed a group to fight for our rights. There is no other
alternative. We will fight to the end.”
Charles and I sat silently, taking it all in.
“I’ll bring you more tea,” the waiter said.
“Is it the group the police think took the dingy from the boat?” I whispered
to Charles.
Charles nodded.

The waiter returned with more tea. Charles ordered another sandwich.
I told the waiter our nice taxi driver, from Colombo, had recommended
his cafe.
“My cousin,” he said, and in a hushed voice warned us not to talk publicly
about the politics of Sri Lanka. “It’s not safe.”
“In America,” I said, “minorities also have to fight for their rights.”
He nodded.
“Your cousin is a nice man,” I said.
He smiled. “He also sailed the seas for many years. But the Indian
Ocean is different because of the mawsim.”
“Mawsim?” I asked.
“Monsoon in English. Arabic in origin, mawsim means fixed season.
In the North the winds blow from the northeast from November to
March, and then switch and blow from the southwest. The fixed seasons
are called the Northeast and Southwest Monsoons.”
“Is this what causes cyclones?” Charles asked.
“No,” the waiter said. “Cyclones are tropical storms. They form over
tropical oceans with high winds of hurricane force.”
“Oh dear,” I said. “They sound dangerous.”
“If you cross the Indian Ocean in mawsim season, you are guaranteed
a few cyclones.”
Charles asked a few more questions about the Trincomalee area and
asked for the bill.

Going out the front door, I almost tripped over a grossly disfigured
man sitting on the sidewalk, leaning against the wall, outside the cafe.
He held a tin cup, hoping for coins. I asked Charles to give him some
change.
Our waiter appeared in the doorway and told us to drop the coins in
the cup.
“He’s a leper. An outcast,” the waiter said. “Sits here most days. I feel
sorry for him.”
My mind reeled, remembering images I’d seen of leper colonies in
films. Leprosy was common in Bible times, and was used as an example
of sin’s destructive power. ‘Unclean, unclean,’ a leper was expected
to call out. To think, this terrifying disease has been around since
ancient times. The thought made me shudder. Why was this man here
and not in a leper colony? Why wasn’t he receiving help?
“Isn’t leprosy an infectious disease?” I asked Charles.
“Yes, but not so contagious. Children are more likely to get it than adults.”
“From contact with body fluids?”
“Yes. From someone with untreated leprosy.” Charles answered. “That’s
why our waiter told us to drop the coins in his cup.”
“What a horrible disease,” I said. “Remember the man we saw in India
with the giant elephant legs? Elephantiasis?”
Charles nodded.
“Everyone else was so skinny; people and cows. And the poor man
could barely move with his heavy legs.”

We stopped in the crowded souk. Colorful displays of green beans,
carrots, peas, and yams got our attention, and the prominent exhibit
of fresh fish impressed me. The market was alive with noise and the
sweet smell of spices and local fruits. One stand was cooking freshly
made stuffed patties. We bought several, and some fresh fruit to take
back to the boat.
Processed milk products were relatively new to Sri Lanka and local
cheese was hard to come by. We found a cheese made from powdered
milk; bought a small piece and sampled it. Not the tastiest, but hey
when in Sri Lanka.
We discussed whether to buy a chicken or seafood, and decided to
wait until we talked with Mia about what foods were needed on board.
“I suspect Mia is a bit territorial in her kitchen,” I told Charles.
“No doubt,” he replied.
The locals were friendly and helpful. A few spoke some English, but
we mainly communicated by pointing. “International sign language
is amazing,” I remarked, as we headed back to the boat.

 

 

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Good Morning Diego Garcia—Excerpt Chapter 7

GMDC-seal-300

Trincomalee, Sri Lanka
July 1, 1975

Nearing the port city of Trincomalee, our driver pointed out shops
and restaurants which might be of interest.

“Only a short distance to the port,” he said. “What is the name of the yacht you will sail on?”

“Zozo,” Charles told him. “I’m sure if you drop us at the entrance to the port we can find our way.”

“No problem,” he said. “I’ll take you there. I have family who work in the port.”

“Oh thank you! Our suitcases are heavy,” I said, remembering all the books I had packed to read during the ocean crossing

Entering the port, our driver asked for directions to the yacht and
drove us a few hundred feet to a concrete quay. The Zozo was docked
alongside a Greek oil tanker. There were dozens of big tankers in the bay. The yacht looked small by comparison.

We unloaded suitcases, paid our driver, and thanked him for his
excellent service.

“I hope you enjoy your stay in Sri Lanka,” he said, nodding goodbye.

Charles called to Dylan and we climbed the gangplank to the boat.

Dylan answered, “Come on up!” He squatted on deck neatly arranging
ropes. “You made it.”

“A few days later than planned. We couldn’t get out of India.”

“Because of ‘The Emergency’?” Dylan asked.

“Yes. Every flight was full or delayed,” Charles answered.

Dylan showed us to our stateroom below and said Mia and Alon had
gone into the village for supplies and should return soon.

“Alon?” I asked. “Mia’s brother sailed with you?”

“Yes, he’s a great help.” Dylan answered.

He showed us the bathroom and sauna, and explained the sauna and
other luxuries all stop working once under sail and on the open sea.

We unpacked our suitcases. Charles went above to help Dylan sort
the ropes. I stayed in our room and put things away in drawers. I was impressed with the abundance of drawers and the nice size closet. I hung our windbreakers and clothes, put swim suits and underwear in a drawer, and placed my new, non-slip deck shoes on the closet floor. Not one for wearing hats, I put those in a top drawer along with sun protection lotion, a deck of cards, and high powered binoculars. I jotted thoughts in my journal.

Zozo? Where do I know this name from?

When I heard Mia and Alon return, I joined them on deck. I was surprised to see Mia dressed in hot pants and a scanty top. Why does she dress like this when visiting foreign countries with conservative dress codes? I wondered, remembering her almost nude attire when I first met her in Cyprus. Her risqué manner of dress; more undressed than dressed, reminded me of the voluptuous L’il Abner female comic strip characters who ran around half-naked. Men didn’t seem to mind. And, it didn’t seem to bother Dylan either.

“Hi Mia,” I greeted her.

She smiled and said, “Welcome aboard!”

Alon greeted me with a bright smile. A young, handsome man, he
looked like a suntan lotion advertisement. Tan and fit, with perfect
white teeth.

“Alon, nice to see you again,” I said.

Mia made fresh coffee. We joined her in the galley below.

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Good Morning Diego Garcia! Excerpt Chapter 4

Good Morning Diego Garcia, by Susan Joyce

Bombay, India
June 1975

We asked about good restaurants in the area. She suggested the Harbor Bar, a lounge bar in the hotel where you can enjoy drinks and order food from any Taj Hotel restaurant.
“Nice!” I said. “The airline clerk recommended it.”
“Yes, and it’s famous for its selection of drinks; the first licensed bar in Bombay,” she added.
“I’m feeling perkier already,” I said.
“Let’s check it out!” Charles smiled.
“Be sure to ask the bartender about the signature cocktail,” the receptionist said, pointing us in the direction of the elevator and lounge.
“Sounds perfect,” I said.

Entering the Harbor Bar, we noticed the liquor license plate: proudly hanging, proclaiming its place in Bombay history as the oldest licensed bar in Bombay.
The greeter showed us to a comfortable window table facing the historic waterfront—overlooking the Gateway to India.
A smiling waiter welcomed us to the stylish lounge bar.
“We have a selection of fine wines, malts, spicy cocktails, and international food fare,” he said. “But first let me tell you a bit of our history.”
We smiled, waiting for him to continue.
“The Harbor Bar opened in 1933,” he said, “during the Prohibition era, and was the first licensed bar in Bombay.”
We nodded.
“An American, traveling across the Indian Ocean in a yacht, was docked in our harbor when he received a radio call from his wife telling him Prohibition in America had ended. He had no alcohol on his yacht and decided to walk to the Taj Mahal Hotel and get a drink to celebrate the news. Entering the Harbor Bar, he asked for a special drink to quench his thirst after many years of not drinking alcohol. The bartender agreed to make him a special drink to commemorate the happy occasion. Using Indian fruit juices, he promised to concoct a tasty cocktail which would blow his mind.
With the first sip of the exotic cocktail, the man shouted in glee. ‘What is the name of this amazing drink?’
The bartender smiled and said, ‘Sir, since it’s an original made special for you, you can name it.’
The American stood, raised his glass, and shouted, ‘From the Harbor Since 1933!’”
“What a great story,” I said, laughing. “I’d like to try it.”
“Flambéed at the table,” the waiter said.
“Flambéed?” I asked. “Even better.”
Charles nodded. “When in Bombay … we’ll have two.”

The waiter returned with a cart holding two wine glasses filled with sliced fruit and another glass filled with fresh squeezed fruit juice and ice. He poured the content of the two glasses into a shaker and shook it with the fancy flair of a seasoned performer, and poured the mixture into two fluted bowl shaped glasses.
“Gorgeous glasses.” I said. “Shaped like the kerosene hurricane lamp my grandmother used during storms when power went out.”
“It’s called a hurricane glass,” he said.
I laughed. “Of course.”
He poured gin into another waiting wine glass, and struck a match to light it.
“Oh,” I said, watching the flames rise.
He swirled the glass and flames around, and slowly poured the flambéed gin into our hurricane glasses. One last stir and the signature cocktail was presented with a broad smile.
The flames disappeared. We sipped the tasty cocktail.
“Peachy and light,” I said, asking for the recipe.
“Gin, crème de peach, pineapple juice, and green chartreuse.”
“Thank you!” I noted the ingredients in my travel journal.
“Flambéed to perfection,” Charles said.
We clinked glasses together, and said, “Cheers!” in unison.
The waiter smiled.

We decided to order dinner from a restaurant located in the hotel named Tanjore. Our waiter explained their menu offered dishes from all of India’s diverse regions. He suggested we order a sampler platter for two, which represents all of them. “You won’t be disappointed,” he added, and explained tastes of India vary tremendously, as a result of local culture, geographical location, seasons, and economics.
Charles asked the waiter to select a white wine to go with all of the different cuisines.
“An Alsace Pinot Gris,” he suggested. “It provides a touch of sweetness.”
“Perfect,” Charles said.

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Good Morning Diego Garcia! Excerpt Chapter 3

Good Morning Diego Garcia, by Susan Joyce

GMDG-300

Bombay, India — 26 June 1975
The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new lands but seeing with new eyes. —Marcel Proust

We arrived in India at 7:00 AM. On final approach, I pointed out to Charles the hundreds of shacks, surrounding the airport. Endless clothes lines strung across roof tops to dry laundry.
“Welcome to Bombay, gateway to India,” the flight attendant announced.
We pulled our belongings from the overhead bin, and waited for the cabin doors to open.
Exiting the plane with us was a beautifully dressed Indian woman, in a sari which appeared to have gold threads woven into it. “Be careful in the terminal,” she said in a thick British accent. “There are bands of thieves who steal valuables. Keep your suitcases close to you at all times.”
“In the airport?” I questioned.
“Yes, It’s terrible. Crime in India is out of control. The government needs to do something about it.” “Oh, thank you,” I said, “we’ll be careful.”

With only ten minutes to catch our scheduled flight to Madras, we stopped at the airline desk to ask them to hold the plane for us.
“What is your final destination?” the airline clerk asked.
“Colombo, Sri Lanka,” Charles answered.
“I’m sorry,” the airline clerk said. “It’s not possible. You’ll need to collect your baggage and pass through customs.”
“Customs?” I asked. “We’ll never make the flight.”
“I can book you on the next available flight to Madras in two days time, and on to Colombo,” she said.
We wondered aloud how to contact our friends in Trincomalee. No clue how to let them know.
“Surrender to fate,” I said.
“Not much we can do,” Charles said. “Book us on the next available flight out.”
“Since the delays are Air India’s fault, we will book you into a luxury hotel and pay your expenses,” the clerk informed us.
“Where will we be staying?” I asked.
“The Taj Mahal Palace Hotel,” she answered.
“The Taj Mahal?” I asked. “Fabulous!”
“It is,” she said. “It’s been renovated and is beautiful. It’s Bombay’s first harbor landmark and the first licensed bar in the city.”
“Sounds great.” Charles smiled.
“It’s legendary,” she said. “Ask the hotel staff to tell you about its history. The ballroom has a gorgeous view of the Gateway to India.”
“Exciting,” I said. “Thanks!” I turned to Charles. “Time to see the sights of Bombay.”
Charles nodded.
“But for now, all I want is a shower and a comfortable bed,” I announced.

With our tickets re-booked, we followed the crowd into the baggage area.
After two frustrating hours, we found our luggage and proceeded through customs.
We lugged our heavy suitcases along a long corridor in the direction of the exit. Charles walked ahead of me, trying to locate a bank so he could change money. Seeing none, he suggested I stay with the luggage while he explored.

I pushed our suitcases close together and stood waiting for him to return.
Disembarking passengers thinned out. All at once, the terminal seemed eerily empty.
Out of a side corridor, three young Indian men appeared, moving toward me.
I quickly straddled the suitcases and sat, legs dangling across them.
Approaching, they asked if I wanted help moving them.
“No, thank you!” I said, firmly. “I’m waiting on my husband.”
“We help you,” one young man said, reaching for a suitcase.
“No,” I shouted, looking around the terminal for help.

I noticed a sea of orange robes heading my way. A group of young women chanting and dancing in brightly colored orange saris.
“Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare, Hare Rama, Hare Rama,” their chant grew louder and their dancing got wilder as they neared.
The three young men backed away and disappeared into a dark passage.
When the dancers reached me, they smiled.
One introduced herself as a devotee of Krishna, and offered to sell me a booklet to benefit the starving children of India. Others continued to chant and sway.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“New York,” she said. “And you?”
“I’m from LA. Why are you in India?
“We’re here to sell our books and spread the word about Krishna Consciousness, and build a temple to honor our Swami, Srila … ”
“There are thousands of starving children in New York,” I said.
“We worship the Hindu god Krishna as the one Supreme God,” another young woman chimed in, ignoring my comment.
“So you’re missionaries?” I asked.
“We’re evangelists. We believe in reincarnation …” one follower wanted to explain their beliefs, but another interrupted, while others continued to chant.
“I believe in reincarnation,” I said. “But I don’t think I need to sell it to others.”
They kept chanting and dancing around me.
“How many times do you have to chant this?” I asked.
“Sixteen,” a young woman answered.
I shook my head in disbelief. Where the hell is Charles?
“We’re vegetarians, and abstain from worldly pleasures,” the young woman said.
“Does chanting help?” I asked. I must have looked confused.
Another young devotee explained they practiced being celibate.
“No drugs or alcohol,” another chimed in. “The temple will be our heaven on earth when it is completed.”
They tried again to sell me the book.
“No. But thanks,” I said, my eyes searching the corridor for Charles and grateful for the diversion which drove off apparent predators. What was taking him so long?
When the Krishna believers realized I had no intention to purchase a book, they moved on.

I looked again for Charles and sighed, relieved to see him coming back. His smile told me he had found a place to exchange money.

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Good Morning Diego Garcia! Excerpt Chapter 2

Good Morning Diego Garcia, by Susan Joyce

My new book will be released as soon as I receive feedback on nautical terms and lingo from my beta reading sailor friends. Needless to say, I’m anxiously awaiting their feedback.

Thought you might enjoy an excerpt from Chapter Two, while we wait. Hope it
resonates with you.

GMDG-300

I glanced at Charles. He was sleeping.
My eyes closed and I returned to remembering the first big travel adventure.
From JFK Airport we flew to London, and boarded another flight to Tel Aviv. A driver, holding a sign with our family name on it, greeted us at the Lod Airport in Tel Aviv, and showed us to a sherut (a shared taxi) which took us (along with other new emigrants) from Tel Aviv, through the Negev desert, to the village of Arad, where we studied Hebrew.
“Amazing adventure,” I said.
Charles patted my knee. “Were you dreaming?”
“Remembering; same thing,” I said, smiling. “And now we’re up and away again; seven years later. Another adventure. It’s exciting”
“Chicken Marsala or Beef Stroganoff?” the hostess asked.
I put my seat forward in an upright position and lowered the food tray.
“Chicken for me, please,” I answered. “And Chardonnay.”
Charles chose the Beef Stroganoff and red wine.
“You look like Dr Ben Casey,” the airline hostess told Charles. “I love his show.”
“So, I’m told often,” Charles said smiling. “In fact, I’ve never seen the show.”
“You haven’t?” she asked. “It’s a great medical drama. A neurosurgeon at County General Hospital. Anyway, enjoy your meal.” She moved on down the aisle.
I uncovered a steaming dish of chicken smothered in mushrooms with pasta. “It’s true,” I told Charles. “You do look like Dr Casey.” I took a bite. “This is delicious. I hope the food is as good on Air India.”
“Maybe better,” Charles said.
“Charles?” I asked, touching his arm.
“Yes?”
“What will you do, when we return to California?”
“What do you mean?”
“Workwise? If your company doesn’t have a new assignment for you?”
“I’m sure they will by then.”
“And if not?”
“Something will turn up. Why do you ask?”
“We’ve been in limbo a long time. When we lived in Virginia Beach, The Little Theatre there advertised a play by Samuel Beckett.”
“And?” he asked, giving me a strange look.
“I wanted to see it, but arrived too late one evening to get in.”
“What was it about?”
“Two people waiting for someone named Godot—wanting someone else to move them forward; prove their existence.”
“Sounds ridiculous.” Charles grimaced.
“Of course Godot never shows.”
“Why on earth would you want to see that? Sounds ridiculous.”
“It reminded me of our situation. Waiting on your firm to tell us where to go next. Like we have no free will. “
Charles didn’t answer. He finished his lunch and went back to reading.
I went back to remembering.
Following the upheaval of the Cyprus War in July 1974, we were homeless and confused about where we’d live. After our evacuation to England, Charles awaited news daily from his employer, a Swiss firm, on where they planned to send him. He had worked for them for years, both in Europe and in the Middle East, and they hoped to place him somewhere. So we waited, and waited some more. I read lots of books, took long walks in the English countryside, and wished for a place to call home.
After weeks of waiting, Charles received a telephone call one day telling us to book flights to Virginia Beach, Virginia, where Charles would work out of the company office near Langley.
Upon our arrival, we found a beautiful, fully furnished home for rent on the 10th hole of the golf course, near the beach; bicycles included.
I stared out the plane window and watched billowing clouds float past. The flight attendant stopped to ask if we’d like more coffee or tea.
“Coffee please,” I replied.
“Cream, sugar?” she asked.
“No thanks. Black please,” I answered. “Smells fresh.”
Charles said no thanks and continued reading.
She smiled and moved on.
I took a sip of coffee.
“Since when do you drink black coffee?” Charles asked.
“Since Virginia Beach and visiting the Edgar Cayce Library.” I answered.
“The Cayce Library?” he questioned.
“Yes, while you were busy visiting military bases, I spent my days riding the bike along the boardwalk to the public library; researching the Cyprus War. One afternoon, by accident … ” I hesitated. “There are no accidents,” I added.
Charles nodded.
“I rode past the Edgar Cayce Foundation Library. People laden with boxes were busy moving books. A volunteer worker explained hundreds of books were being moved from the old Cayce Hospital Library to their new home. She invited me to go on in, have a look around, and make myself comfortable.”
“And you did,” Charles said.
“Yes. Entering the library, I felt as if I had discovered a secret chamber of knowledge; a vault filled with mysterious truths. My head tingled with excitement, so I knew I was in the right place.”
“What does this have to do with black coffee?” Charles asked.
I told Charles all about Edgar Cayce, “The Sleeping Prophet” and how he had the ability to put himself into a relaxed sleep state and connect his mind with all information in time and space. From this state he could respond to any question asked: from practical to trivial, to secrets of the universe. His psychic insights became know as “readings” and were recorded by a stenographer. People from all over the world sent letters requesting information on someone or something. All Cayce needed to know was the name of the person requesting the information and their location before he went into a trance and collected information.
I thought Charles would go back to reading his book, instead he seemed to be listening to me.
“The library was divided into several sections,” I continued. “I found myself drawn to one about discovering your mission in life and another section with books and articles about exploring ancient mysteries. Although I had always felt there was more to life than this life, the Cayce Library was my introduction to the idea of the existence of souls, and how they live on and on after physical death. I felt certain I had experienced past lives … and been lucky in all of them.”
“You were lucky in Cyprus,” Charles said. “We were lucky to get out alive.”
I nodded and continued. “I was soon lost in a sea of information on Edgar Cayce and his thousands of readings.”
“What does this have to do with black coffee?” Charles asked.
“Oh,” I answered. “Cayce talked about diet and the importance of balancing alkaline-producing foods with acid-producing foods and eating locally grown, seasonal foods. And he gave a list of things to avoid like not eating large quantities of meat or cheese with starchy foods.”
“Such as?” Charles questioned.
“Enchiladas, for example.”
Charles laughed.
“Milk, cereal, coffee with milk or cream,” I added, sipping my black coffee.
“To each his own,” Charles said. “No one can convince me Mexican food isn’t healthy.”
“I love it too. I stopped eating cereal after the discovery though.”
Charles opened his book and continued reading.
I removed my travel journal from the seat back pocket in front of me and scribbled images of the jagged clouds and noted some random thoughts about the uncertainty of being in limbo.
Uncertain? Unclear. Unsettled. Unknown.