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

I watched him silently, wanting to comfort him, who was so important in my life. It was my opportunity to put it all behind us, forget everything, and start over. We have done this so many times before. But I no longer wanted to convince him to stay and that was weird.

I felt a deep emptiness take over my chest. When the car drove off, I wanted to turn back the clock and try to fix things, but it wasn’t out of love, it was out of zeal. Suddenly, I saw my father with a coat in his hands saying goodbye. Someone held me as I begged him to carry me in his arms. I felt tears wetting my cheeks and shrill screams clawing in my throat. It was the first time I saw the pain in my father’s eyes. I was terribly afraid of being abandoned forever and screamed at him not to leave me there.

The pain was so sharp that I woke up from that meaningless dream. Lost in time, I was just trying to figure out where I was. I looked up at the ceiling and saw the white veil covering the bed where I slept. Juliana breathed quietly beside me, but I was breathing harshly. Not to wake her, I concentrated on the noise of the river as I counted my sighs slowly.

- Those who leave also suffer.

That phrase rose up in my thoughts for no reason and I started to cry. I could no longer stay in the cabin. I grabbed one of the three comforters, which we smuggled from the dorms to protect us from the chill that easily penetrated the thatched walls, and sat on the hammock outside.

The sky was beginning to lighten on the horizon and I could hear only the cicadas and the gentle current of the river. I thought of the pain I felt leaving Andrew, Laurent, and Cristián, and finally, I could understand the lesson that dream brought me.

I had to experience that journey of leaving things behind with frequency to put myself in Felipe’s place and understand that those who leave also suffer, also cry. I realized that my father never left me, he just had to leave, not because he didn’t love me, but because the marriage to my mother was no longer working and that was another relationship. He would always be my father.

Sometimes leaving is the only option for those who go and it doesn’t mean that someone doesn’t care about those who stay. It just means that some cycles need to be closed.

I closed my eyes and focused on Felipe’s face. It was strange how his image was already blurry in my mind. I couldn’t even see the iris of his green eyes that I used to love so much.

- I regret being so selfish thinking that only I was suffering. I recognize that it hurt for you too. I forgive you for leaving, Felipe.

When the sun came up waking the birds, I was thankful that I had the time I needed in Pai, and although the meaning in Thai is not the same, [24] In Portuguese, “Pai” means “Father”. the name of that village never made so much sense to me. It was in my father’s eyes that I discovered my deadly wound.

Juliana was still limping and the bandage on her knee was complex. I was willing to do anything to help her but help with the bandage. I definitely had no stomach for wounds.

The first part of the trip was in a van. We returned to Chiang Mai, facing the same 762 infernal curves, and stopped at Chiang Rai to see Wat Rong Khun, the famous and iconic White Temple, which was renovated by the architect Chalermchai Kositpipat and put the city on Thailand’s tourist route.

We took our visa at the border and spent the night in a dirty and very simple guest house in Huay Xai, on the Lao side of the border. The van and the room were included in the travel ticket, so there wasn’t much to complain about. I covered my side of the bed with my sarong and Juliana used her sleeping bag. It was clear that those sheets had not been changed for weeks. The next morning we finally got to see the boat where we would spend the next two days.

The trip is no luxury cruise, but it was just that kind of adventure I hoped to live. A wooden boat of about ten meters long, with several bus seats that were not attached to the ground, forming two rows. In the back, a kitchen where the sailor’s family lived, a space with some mattresses and a bathroom used by all passengers. There was no flush, no toilet paper. As in many Southeast Asian toilets, the latrine was on the floor, and a drum stored water to be used in the toilet as well as hygiene. Good thing I always had cleaning wipes on me.

We spent all day sitting. The boat, which is the main means of transport for the local population, stopped in every village on the river bank and it was impossible to ignore the misery most people lived in. At each stop, dozens of children hung on the sides of the boat, asking for money or trying to sell fabric bracelets.

Near sunset, the boat stopped in Pak Beng city. Sitting between tourists and backpacks, Juliana and I arrived at the guest house in the back of a pickup truck. The poor bars and restaurants reminded me of some of the roadside towns in the Amazon that I saw on a car trip I took with Felipe in our first year of marriage.

The next morning I left Juliana at the inn with the big backpacks and walked to the harbor. I wanted to ensure a good seat for her leg on the boat. I left our two boarding packs guarding the first seats and got off the boat to buy a pack of cigarettes. I wasn’t exactly in the mood to smoke, but I wanted cigarettes for the trip. When I got back from the stall, Juliana arrived in the truck and I ran to help her out with the backpacks.

At the entrance to the boat, I kept my wallet in my hand, the cigarettes, and Juliana’s backpack, which was tied to a cart. On the other hand I held the plastic bag where I should put my sneakers. Barefoot culture seemed even more important in Laos. As I tried to balance myself with the river swing, I took off my shoes and managed everything in my hands.

When I reached the middle of the boat, I stopped in the corridor and noticed that my wallet was no longer in my hand, and I remembered resting it on a bench next to the sailor’s helm. I went to the end of the boat to leave the luggage, and when I returned to retrieve my wallet, I didn’t find it anymore.

My heart raced and I felt my hands sweat. I asked all everyone who worked on the boat, but they didn’t answer me at all. They just waved their hands as if to explain that they did not speak English. I tried to mime, but none of them paid attention to me.

I searched through my purse to make sure I hadn’t stored the wallet without realizing it, but I had vividly in my mind the image of the green wallet, with the cigarette pack on it, standing on the varnished wooden counter just beside the helm.

I looked under the stools and even went back to the stall where I’d bought the cigarettes, even though I was sure I had left nothing there. Annoyed, I forced myself to sit in my seat and forced myself to accept that my wallet was gone forever. I didn’t have the heart to say that, but theft was the only explanation for that.

I put both hands over my eyes and started to cry. Juliana put her hand on my shoulder and asked me to calm down.

I sobbed softly and wondered why this was happening to me once again. Then someone gently touched my back.

- Is your passport safe, miss? – The sweet voice of a gray-bearded gentleman entered my ears and calmed me. I took my hands off my face and turned to him. His blue eyes, outlined by the thin, wrinkled skin, were so close to mine that for a second everything around me disappeared.

- It’s in my backpack – I replied, with a choked voice.

- So, it’s all right – he now had his hand over my head. – You have your friend, and she will take care of you. The money and other documents you get back later. – He smiled, lighting a light of hope and gratitude in me.