Learning to Breathe

When we rejoin our hero, he is once again in a taxi. It is a different taxi, one of the old and dangerous black and white Fiats. Unencumbered by suspension, it flies over potholes, around packed buses and overloaded donkey carts, horn blaring. His eyes are closed, but more in thought than agony now. His countenance is shifting, an old look glinting on his face.

He had really done a pretty good job packing for this adventure - rugged shoes, weather beaten leather satchel (thanks Hov), traveling pants, a sensible knife, and his trusty whip, that braided leather weapon that could double as a rope in times of peril. On these trips, there was always peril. There had been that moment when he realized he had left his stove top espresso maker back in the relative safety of Texas. He had to turn away, spend a moment alone so that the villagers, who revered him like a god, wouldn't see or hear him weeping.

These first two weeks had been difficult. But, facial muscles relaxing slightly, he realized that luck had largely been on his side. The wild dogs he wrestled in the wadi had turned out not to be rabid. When assaulted with poison gas (a clever ploy by Turkish assassins), his arab's scarf, a secret gift from the sultan's wife, was already wrapped tightly around his face. Even the poison darts had missed their mark, leaking their venom harmlessly into the large wooden door of the tomb.

The pyramids had been a different story. Most of the booby traps were long since sprung, the trap door jammed, and the crocodile pit dried up. But the pickpockets were as swift as ever, stealing a little of his confidence along with several of the rubies he had been carrying to his Greek connection. At least one of those thieving dogs would carry a scar, a bloody gift from our hero's knife across his cheek - a mark that he would look for later when the time came to exact his revenge.

It was really the last few years that had worn on him, stolen something from him. His BMI had increased at nearly the same rate as the speed of his internet connection. He had become softer, more practical. He had re-embraced the anxiety of his youth, the awkward self-consciousness.

Sure,there had been adventures since he left the side of Subcomadante Marcos ten years ago to return to Texas, get a job, and make babies. There was the time he and his beautiful wife hacked through the jungle and braved the slums of San Pedro Sula, successfully cracking open the Honduran underworld of conch smuggling. Princes (and princesses) still called on occasion, sent letters of gratitude for deeds done long ago.

The Romanian taxi driver hissed something in Italian, slapped down the visor to block our hero's face, and lurched forward into what appeared to be a crowded alley. Long ago our hero had learned that when you really needed a driver you could trust - the kind who would slide his car sideways into a truck if needed and give his life for you - the only ones worth hiring were Romanians. Not only are they loyal and brave, but they all share a keen sense of direction and amazing attention to detail. It is not easy finding a Romanian taxi driver in Cairo. But this trip was never supposed to be easy.

He inhaled slowly, tentatively as though he were learning to breathe for the first time. His eyes opened slightly as he exhaled. And a second breath in deeply and out - the calm spreading across his face. He started to remember something he learned many years ago, probably in Mexico. With each new breath, his smile widened. His eyes were open now, taking in the insanity of the world racing toward him and for the first time in a very long time he began the process of letting go.