Paula Brukmüller - Flowers from Greece - The Autobiography of the Journalist Who Turned a Personal Tragedy into an Inspiring World Tour

I had a traditional kebab for dinner paying under $20 and ran to my cave to shelter myself from the cold. The only two jeans I had in my backpack weren’t enough to warm me up. Good thing I had my jacket, affectionately nicknamed the bear, because it wrapped me in a single, comfortable hug. “I’m glad I didn’t let you go, Teddy bear.”

Icould only see a blue door slightly open. I knew what was inside and that was the reason why I was afraid to come in. I was tormented and scared, but I couldn’t make any noise. No one could know I was there. I walked slowly and found a dirty dark bar with overturned metal tables on the burnt cement floor. My father was injured, lying next to a dead man. That was what I feared to see.

I put my old father on my right shoulder and walked away with difficulty. It was early dawn and I started walking down a dark alley at the bottom of a gorge with many rocks. Something told me it wasn’t safe to take my father to the hospital even though I knew he needed medical treatment.

- I don’t want you to die, dad, but I don’t want anyone to take you away from me either. What should I do? Tell me please.

I woke up with this uneasy feeling and for a second I thought the cave walls where I had been sleeping were the dark alley where I tried to save my father. It was a strange dream and I spent the day wondering if it had any hidden meaning. Some message from the universe.

The snow that had fallen during the night made Cappadocia even more beautiful. When the van stopped at an observation deck with olive trees covered with ribbons, pieces of pottery, and different types of nazar – also called the Greek eye or the Turkish eye, I saw the fairy chimneys covered with a layer of white snow and I cried again. I knew I deserved to be there seeing that beauty with my own eyes. If I didn’t deserve it, I wouldn’t have come this far. I can’t express how special I felt.

We hiked through the Ihlara Valley, a 100-meter-high canyon, squeezed between two volcanoes that lead to the Melendiz River and also house millennial Byzantine caves and churches. Throughout the four miles, I could hear the trees swinging their leaves in the breeze that chilled my face. The birds and the water sliding over the stones wrapped up the perfect melody for the hike. I preferred to walk away from the group and stroll in silence, still trying to understand my emotions. I cried a few more times, searching my mind for the connections my unconscious was making to raise that urge to cry.

The night before, I had texted Simone, my coach, and she told me our unconscious is constantly associating events around us, triggering emotions already known and felt at other times. She suggested that the time of year might give us a clue, but I didn’t even know what day of the week I was, let alone the month.

I said a prayer of appreciation inside the main wing of the Selime Monastery. Whatever was releasing that whirlwind of emotions had some purpose, even though I couldn’t understand it.

When I got to my room that evening, I opened Facebook and read the memory of the day. “Six years ago,” I read a post I’ve made to invite my friends and family for my father’s funeral. I remembered the dream I had the previous night and everything made sense. It was not a warning, it was so unconscious that it brought up one of the most painful moments in my history. The loss of the greatest man of my life. It was so obvious that I couldn’t believe it.

I took my reflective journal and wrote down everything I felt when my father passed away. I remembered having an overwhelming urge to cry, I saw and heard my sister sobbing the cry I wanted to let go, but I kept myself blocked. It added to my pain. “Why can’t I cry when the pain is unbearable?” I asked myself in my journal and then I went to sleep.

The alarm went off at 4am. It was my last day in Cappadocia and my last chance to see the traditional hot air balloons in the sky. I put on my two pairs of jeans again one on top of the other and all the socks I had in my luggage to make up for the cold in my legs. I ran outside anxiously to see if the snow had not fallen again. The hostel reception was already open and that was a good sign.

- The balloons will fly today. There are still two spots. Do you wanna go? – Joab, the young receptionist, asked me.

- Only if it was a gift, honey. 170 euros is a fortune for a backpacker like me! – I thanked him and set off on foot to the mountain where I cried in the morning of the first day.

Reaching the top, I looked for a place where there weren’t so many tourists, positioned my tripod and sat waiting for the sunrise. Below, it was possible to see the flames igniting and inflating the first balloons. It would be nice to fly, but I was already happy to watch them soar.

It was still 40 minutes before sunrise, and it was obvious that the first balloons would take off only when the first rays appeared on the horizon. I thought of my father again and my difficulty in crying in moments of shock. I remembered when my 12-year-old Labrador retriever died. Felipe cried copiously in the car as I looked at her lifeless body in the back seat. She was the most important thing in our lives, it hurt deeply to know that I would no longer have her faithful company when washing dishes or mowing the lawn. But I couldn’t shed any tears.

I remembered other moments of pain, when our marriage was almost over. It was as if a gigantic rock closed my heart and did not allow emotions to manifest in their wholeness. I couldn’t figure out what this blockage was, but I was glad I could finally cry all the mourning that was my dear father’s departure. I’m glad I had the chance to understand that some pains weren’t mine. I’m glad I could tell him how much I loved him and recognize the sweet, loving father he had always tried to be. It was good to realise he was the best father he could have been.

As the sun started rising, tears were still running on my face and I felt his presence by my side. I knew he was there, sitting beside me on that ice-cold cliff.

- Who would have thought you’d be with me in Turkey, huh dad?

- I am with you everywhere.

The bright colorful balloons were rising in the dark blue sky that was lighting up softly. One by one. Everywhere. They were like sparkling prayers in search of the heart of God.

- Thanks for stopping the snow, Dad.

- That’s the way I found it to say I love you.

Ileft my Uber at Red Square and looked for my cellphone to check how long I had to explore Moscow. I still didn’t know I could schedule a longer connection in the city, but I was happy to have a few hours to see sights in Russia’s largest city.

A fine drizzle fell from the dark gray Moscow sky, and even before I reached the History Museum and the Resurrection Gate, I was already chattering my teeth.

I took some pictures with the tripod and the cellphone timer and walked to St. Basil’s Cathedral which, with its colorful domes, made me feel like I was standing before a playful, childlike palace. I took a few more pictures until my hands almost froze without gloves, and I finally walked out in search of a shelter to escape from the drizzle that was getting thicker.

I walked down a brightly lit sidewalk and got into a cool café. The weather was not favorable to visit the city better, so I could only try to make some different types of connection. I decided to do something new and introduced myself to a very short black-haired girl wearing blue acrylic glasses.

- Hi, I’m Paula from Brazil. Do you mind if I sit here with you? – I asked paying attention to the curious expression on her face.