In November, just a week before my planned vacation with Davy in England over the Thanksgiving holiday, I received a phone call from my son in Greece. I was naked in a dressing room, trying on a new bra.
As it happens, my ex-husband had been apprehended and was in custody in a Greek jail in Alexandroupoli. I'd been told by Authorities from the American Consulate in Thessaloniki and the American Embassy in Athens that I should get on a plane immediately and pick up my son. They would bring him to Thessaloniki, where I would pick up an emergency US passport for him, and we could come back home together.
So that night, I began my preparations. Not knowing whether I would make it to England as planned, I stopped over in London to meet Davy for the very first time at Heathrow. Enjoying my time with him, I was a little casual about getting through security on time. I actually didn't know that I had to be through security by a certain length of time before the gate opened. So, I missed my plane to Athens. Davy helped me change my flight to a later time, retrieve my luggage and check it back in again. Then, he hung around and we talked and drank tea together until it was time for me to go. We said goodbye, and I gave Davy my bottle of Starbucks Frappuccino to hold on to until we met again.
When I left London for Athens, I was seated beside a man from Beirut. He was around my age, and called himself Charlie. He'd been living in London for a good 20 years or so, and had just broken up with his long-time girlfriend. We talked and laughed (he was good-looking, too. Very casually dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt with stylish sneakers with squared toes), drank wine together... He wanted to give me his phone number. He wanted me to come with him back home to Beirut for a bit. Extremely flattered that a guy like that would even pretend to be so interested in me--his motives were irrelevant--I said no, no, no. Thanks for all your flattery, but no. But he still tried to convince me, for whatever reasons he had on his agenda. He was very persistent.
Our plane was late to land in Athens, and I had to run like crazy to catch the next one to Thessaloniki, my final destination. He ran with me and helped to get me to where I needed to be. At the security checkpoint, I gave him a hug and kissed him quickly on the cheek in thanks. He turned his head and tried to kiss me again on the lips, but I turned away, accepting his phone number instead. "If you need anything, just call me. I'll come find you," he said. He dictated the number to me, but I didn't save it. I deliberately snapped my phone shut before hitting the save button and waved a hasty goodbye.
Around midnight Monday morning, I finally made it to Thessaloniki and into my hotel room . I'd been travelling since Saturday afternoon and wide awake since 5 am the Friday before.
Monday afternoon, I was told by my Consulate contact that I had to go to Alexandroupoli to pick up Alex, and that I should do it the very next day. I was also told that my ex-mother-in-law was suing me for custody of my own son, and that I needed to find a lawyer.
After 8 days of hell in the town of Alexandroupoli (I was in Greece 10 days altogether), the female judge was unable to reach a decision. Because of Alfi's pigheaded vindictiveness, I came to the realization that if I didn't leave Alex there, none of us--not me, not my parents, not my family and friends, and most importantly, not Alex--would live in peace for years to come, or perhaps never. So, during a bizarre outburst amongst Alex, my parents on the phone, and the Oma, I made my decision. At 5:30 that afternoon, while tempers were still raging, I did something I'd always wanted to do. In English, I vented all my feelings about my mother-in-law to her face, then told her to fuck off.
One last time, I asked Alex if staying in Greece with his father and the Oma was really what he wanted.
"Yes," he said.
"Even if it means you might never see me again?"
"Yes," he said, again.
Heartbroken, I nodded. Making sure he remembered my maiden name, and that he had my parents' phone number, and mine, I gave Alex one last hug and kiss, and exited the apartment with bags in hand.
But not before I swiped my son's American and German passports, which the Oma had so carelessly and arrogantly left on the coffee table during my stay. If my ex husband and mother-in-law meant to keep Alex, I wasn't going to make it easy for them to travel and hide, again. At least for a little while.
It was 5:30 in the afternoon when I left Alex at the Oma's apartment, and night had already fallen. On foot, I navigated the dark side streets toward the nearest bus depot. As I walked, I called Davy and asked him to meet me in Newcastle the next day.
By 6:15, I was on a bus headed back to Thessaloniki, 4.5 hours away. I'd taken two Xanax at once, just to get through the trip without losing my shit in front of all those people, but still, I couldn't quell the tears.
Twenty-seven hours and three planes later, I landed at Newcastle, on the northeastern coast of England, where Davy greeted me with open arms. I did not want to return home. I did not want to reenter the real world. I was in pain; I'd just lost my son. I needed to heal. The remaining days of my vacation were spent in with Davy in a cottage at Seahouses.
That bottle of Starbuck's Frappuccino was waiting for me when I arrived. I saved that bottle until the morning I departed for Chicago, just a few days later. In the meantime, I had a lovely, relaxing visit on the coast within walking distance of Bamburgh Castle. Davy and I strolled along the coast, picked seashells, visited pubs, enjoyed scampi and fish and chips, and did a little sightseeing. Davy was the perfect host, his presence sweet and comforting, and parting was bittersweet.
Returning home was necessary, and it took me a few weeks to recover and reintegrate. I will never forget Alex and "the Oma" prancing out of the courtroom, their arms around each other, smiling, passing by me without a single glance from my son, after the judge had announced that Alex could return to his Oma's house, with or without me. That sense of loss and desolation, a mortal wound to my heart and soul, will never leave...
I've lost a son but gained a friend. I will never forget the heart-wrenching pain of that Thanksgiving holiday.
Who'da thunk we'd find any of this in Elburn, a psychic fair AND far right attitudes opposing it?
There is more than one path to divinity, and it's my own opinion that finding the divine in oneself entails finding the divine in others--with love, tolerance, and understanding, regardless of philosophical differences.
Who knows? Maybe to divine IS divine. When such ability is used to aid and heal, who is to say that it isn't a gift from God? Or Goddess? 
