No Welcome Home - Weeping is Over

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I did not follow the plan Glenn and I made; I deviated, big time. So far as Glenn knew, I was in Israel. Instead, well, I dropped off the earth, and wound up in Stockholm instead of Tel Aviv. I'd contacted Jim Phillips and as a "favor" for my past services, he provided me with a new ID. He had the Gunnery Sergeant from the Embassy (An NCO from the Marines oversaw the Marine Security Guard at each Embassy, typically a Gunnery Sergeant) meet me at a coffee house near the Casa Rosada, the President of Argentina's home. He walked right up to me, accepted my passport and handed me a sealed manila envelope, turned around, and disappeared.

I opened the packet and saw a perfectly good used passport with a short, typewritten bio. There was a note to take the overnight Viking cruise ship from Stockholm to Helsinki on a specified date and ask for Frank's table at the Hostess station. There were no directions on how to get there, just be on that ship on that date.

In any event, I took a train from Buenos Aires to Santiago, Chile, then a plane on to Heathrow. I took a shuttle to Gatwick and flew on to Stockholm on Norwegian Air. That gave me ten days in Stockholm before I took the overnight ferry on to Helsinki.

Stockholm is a wonderful, very clean place, and heaven if you like fresh seafood. For the first time since this soap opera had started, I had a chance to really relax. It's a good town for walking, and I did a lot of that. I'd let myself go and got out of shape and a bit flabby (okay, truth, more than a bit). I loved the food, the best seafood I'd ever had. I stayed at an old hotel on Gamla Stan, a small island near the main downtown part of Stockholm. In my touristy running around what I enjoyed the most was a visit to the Naval Museum. It had a wonderful collection of rifles and pistols covering hundreds of years, and Naval Uniforms through the centuries.

At last, the night came to take the ferry. I got there early; I did not want to miss this boat. After it departed, there were several hours of passing through the thousands of islands in the water leaving Stockholm. Some were tiny, a rock with a boat dock and a house. Most were very heavily wooded. All in all, it was an incredibly scenic trip.

It came time for dinner, so I walked to the restaurant. As directed, I asked for Frank's table at the front desk and a lovely hostess took me to the table. When we neared, I almost tripped as I saw Jim Phillips sitting at the table. He had a big, innocent smile and stood up. I thanked the hostess and offered my hand: "Frank, great seeing you!"

Jim replied, calmly, "Same to you, let's have a nice dinner and we can talk in my cabin."

I have no recollection of what I ate, but it was good. Afterwards, we walked around the deck a couple of times in the quasi-darkness and ended up in his cabin.

"I was really surprised to hear from you; I didn't know if you were alive or dead. Well, I know you are dead, but let's make sure that this is the last time."

We talked for a while, doing definite damage to a bottle of Finnish Vodka. At the end, he gave me a new, and what was to prove to be, the final ID packet I'd ever need. He took the Buenos Aires papers and made them disappear.

When I got back to my cabin, I opened the passport and found out I was a Spanish citizen from Madrid. I would have no problem there as my Spanish was very close to native Madrileño.

After we docked, I spent a few hours looking around the city (Jim was staying on the ship for the return to Stockholm), then caught a plane to Frankfurt. From there, I took a train to Madrid where I would wind up staying for a few months. Jim had a flat arranged and pre-paid for six months in a nice part of Madrid, fairly near the Prado art museum. Jim had also given me five thousand Euros cash, and the info I needed for my bank account which had another twenty thousand in it. I still had the Swiss lock box, and periodically, I would go to Switzerland and pick up some of the Krugerrands. I'd sell these in Madrid, usually losing four to five percent.

I stayed in Madrid for a short time, half a year or so, and moved on to San Sebastian. I liked the city, and it was an easy trip to either France or Portugal. The food was good, and it was a beautiful area, located on the Atlantic coast on the Bay of Biscay, a short twelve miles from the French border.

I found a flat with a one-year lease. It was on the top (sixth) floor of a building, with one flat per floor. The elevator was on the side of the building, with a small entryway. On one side of the entryway was a door for the area in which the owner of the building lived.

It was a keyed elevator, with a different key for each floor. This allowed the elevator to open directly into each apartment, in my case the large living room. On the front end was the bedroom suite and the other end was the kitchen/dining area.

It was done very elegantly, with parquet floors and all leather furniture. There was a nice balcony in the front bedroom part of the house and a larger terrace off the kitchen. It was perfectly suitable for my needs.

The location was perfect, a short block to the beach, and in an area of bars and restaurants. There were 18 Michelin starred restaurants within 15 miles. Within a couple of blocks were a half-dozen pintxos bars—the Basque equivalent of tapas — that form the cornerstone of San Sebastian's foodie culture. These were small plates of great variety.

I loved getting up early in the mornings and walking on the beach, then stopping at one of the small bakeries for coffee and pastry at the outdoor tables.

I made many short trips around the area, maybe taking the train to Bayonne in France, or driving to Santiago de Compostela. The Cathedral there is the end-point of the famous pilgrimage trek of Camino de Compostela, or the Way of St. James.

Once, I took the train to Porto, at the ocean end of the Douro River Valley, and spent a week going around the bodegas tasting port.

I had an enjoyable time—I would always remember it as a nice interlude—but finally was ready to settle down... permanently!

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Thanks for reading this story—I appreciate all comments and will always try to respond to emails.

Kudos to "The Wanderer" for his challenge. It's always fun to put yourself inside someone else's head and try to imagine what they would have written.

For those of you who are reconciliation fans, sorry! Given what Sandra had done and Dave's response it just seemed hopeless. I couldn't see Sandra getting out of jail 20 years later and bumping into Dave, who suddenly missed his former life and wife, meeting again and having a joyful reunion.