This chapter chronicles a whirlwind journey, transforming every encounter into a golden opportunity. Miami shores and Rio de Janeiro salsa dance. I find myself in Johannesburg, seeking respite and a chance to reclaim my year of visiting right with my sons. But the yearning for activity pulls me onward, a beacon of hope in a sea of uncertainty, beckoning. New York City and a reunion with Erin, the constant struggle for a job.

YD6~28 Chasing Dreams and Deadlines: A Gemini's Journey

The taxi dropped me off at a Miami hotel, with my bloated suitcase, heading to the Cuban, African-European mixed heritage, attendant at the register, to pause my calf suitcase. I leave with the room keys, drop off my suitcase, walk out, and hit the streets. Sweeping eyesight across trickling traffic, and bypassing pedestrians, a gleaming station, sprawls massif entering and exiting beams, against the scattered clouds. Curiosity gets the better of me to ascend the stairs to the platform. A futuristic - Whining. . . - A driverless and without engine muzzle, a windowed pod approach glides a seamless see-through silhouette of a dozen seated passengers to a silent stop. Doors - hiss - open. A few passengers disembark, and I step in. A metallic voice announces our departure with a smooth glide. The ground far below slips behind me. I’m gliding over the city-pulsed retailers’ arteries. Stops at platforms, to a peaceful exchange of one or two passengers. Stopping briefly at sky stations for a quiet exchange of passengers, to continue gliding. Below, the suburbs sprawl weathered tiled hip and ridges pitch roof. Until I step out, to walk the beachfront promenade. A black man in his early twenties in the passing catches me and, with an unexpected turn, stops me in a singsong plea. “Five dollars please?” with hand-cupped, incessant repeating.

Dressed, unlike a beggar, I launch into a lecture. The young man nods, flickering smart-eyed. ‘_Yeah, man, you right. Asking for money ain’t the answer. Gotta find a job, you know? Earn that respect of making it on your own._’ Exhausted by the unexpected social work, I turned to leave but met a last plea. “Have you got five dollars?”

I was tired, after a sightseeing cruise of the river’s bank, amazing water-slicked, oil-shimmering rainbow colors playing lights, to the bascule raised bridge, excess leisure touring town. With a mounting homesick restlessness, until the morning of my flight. Handing the ‘Cuban’ my room key, and paying my hotel bill. He directs me into a telephone niche to dial a taxi. When I return, the ‘Cuban’ adopts a case of amnesia, feigning ignorance about my deposit with foreign words. Resigned to his fate, shoulders slumped. I force my voice onto him. “I want my deposit back?” rising a notch, louder with a deeper voice, as a woman towing and loaded with luggage. She walks through the entrance door, crossing the lobby, as I plant myself square to the ‘Cuban’ — ‘_I’ll stand here until you return my twenty dollars!_’. His eyes shift to the woman, ready for a friendly serviceable welcome. The woman hesitates, to enter the ongoing wrangling. With an eye sigh, his hand slipped from the edge, reluctant to return from the cash drawer, producing a bill. The wrath of my Warthog, to a cynic, scoffed, ‘_You wouldn’t have got away in a non English-speaking countries!_’

Pulling the hotel door shut behind me, I hustle to the waiting taxi. “Airport.” I request. Glad I’m on my way, I’m shortening my frustration meeting Lionel and Gavin. The taxi halts in front of the terminal, for me to step out. I enter the concourse, weave to gateway counters, greeting the ground hostess with the flight ticket at the check-in counter. ‘_Your flight has left._’ the attendant drones.

“That can’t be?” I exclaim. my warring Warthog rises to the forefront of my Gemini, in a rising tide of panic from search around. I walk across to a waiting air hostess, servicing a juxtaposed counter. 

With a determined stride, I march over to the flight attendant behind the counter. Launching into a tirade about the other airline’s “incompetence,” I unload my woes. The new ground hostess possesses a pulse — I couldn’t imagine myself another night in Miami. “OK! I’ll take the flight.” She soothes, my frazzled state. With a wave of relief, she sent me on to board the flight with another airline — ‘_Perhaps there’s some sort of inter-airline deal in place?_’ 

Across the Rio de Janeiro arrival terminal, I’m stepping out to the driveway, sighting a slight man approach. As I’m catching my bearings, circling to my side, addressing me. “I have an apartment to rent.” He purrs. “Cheap for the week.” His smooth voice seduced my skeptic Warthog. He leads me to a taxi entering opposite sides to meet in the back seat. The man guides the taxi driver, and en route we chat, swirling in mind his moon in Libra — The scavenger, but I’m outside his field of cognition to control me. 

By nightfall, I’m strolling the moonlit Copacabana promenade, the rhythmic washing waves, among strollers, joggers, and women on rollerblades, as melodic chatter floats over my shoulder, drawing closer. After a lost glimpse, I glance back at the gaggle of petite, spirited beauties. They keep up at my pace. In line with my shoulders, unimposing two or three arm lengths away, to hook their infectious laughter. I miss most of their Portuguese conversation mingling young girls’ giggling, the mile-long promenade, exchanging a few words, a nascent understanding bridging the language barrier. Crossing the sidestreet, I can’t concede to their expectation. Instead, I’m asking. “Is there a nightclub here?” Their youthful comic grin spreads across their faces, giggling in reply. “Yes,” stepping out of the shadows and a few paces ahead, leading the way.

At my strides, exchanging words, I became comfortable with the girls. Leading me toward the end of the promenade, nearing shadowy hills at the promenade’s end, when light cracked from the margined building’s doorway. Louder in our approach, the salsa music pulsed through the air. Entering the air thick with Latin rhythms. Stepping into a crowd dancing with both petite girls — Aetheria looming from a cumulus zodiacal forest mirror of the earth, contented — as the music vibrated through me to the ball of my feet, rocking and rolling hips, through sambas. I danced with the crowds, depth into the night pulsating rumbas, and playful cha-chas. Early in the morning, the hall thinned, through with the wide doorway’s first light entering the dance hall. At sunrise, we stepped out. With a pang of guilt hit me for the girls, not meeting their needs. I couldn’t ask, but they seemed rather pleased with their night.

By lunchtime, people at terraced tables leading to amazing advertised prices lured me into a sidewalk restaurant. The waiter ushered me to a table to sit by a curious feature — a shoulder-height screen alongside the sidewalk. Mesmerizing the bustling street, the waiter brings my order. Placing the plate in front of me, he turns away to disappear inside. While I fork and knife my streaming dish, a hand from behind the screen snatches the meat out of my plate. The city underbelly, without shame, the man walks on and, to my dismay, throws me a smirk. 

On my last day, I joined an Argentinian tour guide with a mane of raven hair. -- Aetheria’s volition playing her harp on the sunray strings, streaming subtle nudges keep the intrigue -- The Aquarius stream an infectious chatting, too precious — Aetheria’s gift, paving my path, lingering a bittersweet pang along my way to the airport. We passed a sun-ignited church’s translucent stained-glass, to a tower balanced on a leg, before dropping me off at the airport terminal. I crossed the concourse, to check in to passport control, to my relief, I handed over my South African Airways boarding pass, at the gate to the aircraft. after an over-extended leisure time on my flight, taking off on the last leg across the Atlantic before seeing my boys.

During our prolonged glide, the ground’s populated suburbs came up — to a brief flashback of jumbo jets’ undercarriage extracted, with the massive aircraft anchored in the air. As the silver ship glides above the highway, the familiar route leading to my building sites in Spring, to touch down on the mounted end of the landing strip, amidst gold mine dump — But the muscles ache from the shackles of my seat to the relentless engine thrum, whispered promise of home. Rattling, sitting bravely. “Almost there,” I mutter a silent mantra. The aircraft breaks out shudders - whoosh - of air brakes to taxi. We approach and pass the terminal curtain wall to a fascia, “Jan Smuts International Airport.”

At a standstill along airport distant fields. ‘_Stay put,_’ I remind myself. But restlessness gnaws at me. I rise into the aisle, to stretch my arms alongside other passengers. Yank my bag from the overhead bin. In the queue, shuffle, to snake, and pass farewell smile-wishing aircrews, overseeing the deplaning passengers in a rambling trail across the tarmac, vanishing behind the terminal’s curtain wall. 

Emerging into the bustling arrivals hall, I’m swept up in a herd of passengers by the barriers of a row of glazed booths. Few officers occupied, my eyesight shifting, toward the far flank lane to the free trickle of passengers disappearing beneath a sign reading “South African Passport Only.” Surge of narcissism washes over me, but I retract from chancing my luck, to produce my South African ID book. Clutching my Belgian passport with its expired expatriate residence stamp, I steeled myself for the queue. Shuffling forward reasoning concerning such as working permits official issues.

I glanced behind, heading on, arriving too early at the luggage carousels. The crowds are catching up around the beltway thickens, as weary passengers watch. I search for my bloated suitcases. Snag my parachute canvas from the carousel belt of suitcases procession, wrestling to a trolley, eager, trundle away. Dodging the watchful customs officers’ eyes. I emerge to the concourse’s swirling vortex of greeters. As I walk toward the flank wall, my suitcase vanishes in a swift swipe. Looking aside, I meet Ivo’s grinning face. “Gooien dag (Flemish - Good day!” he booms. ‘_I surprised you?_’

Following Ivo’s confident lead, I bask in the feeling of being taken care of. We weave from the throng of greeters toward the distance harsh glare of sunlight across the concourse. Approaching while I’m scheming to collect those fifty-two weekends — my visiting right credits with Lionel and Gavin!

Emerging into the sun-drenched parking lot, Ivo hoists my suitcase with ease to tuck into the trunk. We hop into the car, for he drives away, along the highway security fence a stretch, to duck into the underpass cast shade, to striking sunlight settling to Kempton Park suburbs, through backstreets. Veer and counter veering, onto facing through security fencing across the highway the shrunk blurry airport. Pulling into the driveway. We halt in front of the paired garage doors, to flank the house when beneath the eave, Caroline steps out the crack of the front door, a beacon of welcome. Charlene clinging to her skirt, sucking her thumb. Her wide-eyed with curiosity. ‘_Who’s daddy bringing home?_’ Follows Sherrilee to the sun white concrete path through the lawn, behind Sheldon.

Seamless back with Ivo’s family life, from Caroline cooking in the kitchen super. After the meal, move to the lounge to chat. I end up sleeping in Sheldon’s bedroom. In the morning, I’m riding with Caroline to the Bom-Mach’s office, and on to the Walk Behind Roller factory. Ivo leads me out the workshop doorway. up the driveway, giving me the keys, to Igor’s Audi sedan. I step in, a wry smile on Ivo’s face, his towering bodybuilder figure slipping behind, as I’m driving away. Heading out Spartan’s industrial streets, west toward the Randburg Magistrate Court.

I entered the court’s lobby, waiting until the family advocate invited me to sit at her desk. She opens Jean’s files, as though Jean had just walked out before my arrival. The advocate scrutinizes Jean’s claims --. 

The judge kindly insisted on an answer. While I watched Jean’s protégé, the judge muted the Advocate and the Lawyer; they hadn’t seen a Warthog’s wrath — his memory doesn’t forget — building up from dragging me into the Supreme Court when I begged for a moratorium. My playful Gemini ousted into the background. I took a breath, and in a gust to despise for Jean’s legal team, I stammered my response. “Fifty Rand.” 

Leaving the family Advocate’s office, she had listed the dates I failed to meet my maintenance commitments, jumble mumble in my head. “I can’t help you with your visiting rights,” the family advocate says. I walk out of the office. ‘_It’s up to you. . . it you want to see your boys!_’ I’m telling myself. 

I drive past the classic stone building, stone sculptured “Witwatersrand University,” to veer into a side street, in Bloemfontein. where my niece Sasja’s boyfriend loaned me the apartment. My temporary lair, while I navigate the challenges of claiming visitation rights with my boys. Each day, I walk down the street, with a Mars bar solace. 

I resonated, driving outbound through the northern suburbs, exiting the highway, to enter Kelvin’s leafy suburb. I pull up to the gates. Beyond the prison bars, I dare not enter, since I felt sorry for her and wrapped at the door — Haunted by the image playing in my mind, pirating Jean’s mind. Resounding, Jean rushed toward a firearm she bought since she lives alone with the boys in the house. I pursued her step with a purview along the corridor, past the boys’ room doorways to the master bedroom’s shaggy carpet. I see her pull into her bedside drawer and rush back. By then I had fled up the panhandle drive. 

Through the gates, I see the distant porch of the Marseillaise tiled roof — The house I built stood silent and dark, a stark contrast to the sentiments of disbelief. ‘_Jean wouldn’t let her boys alone._’ I pondered. Until my boys walked up the driveway, Lionel, 12, a head taller than Gavin, 9-year-old, leading. They slip through the gate. “Mommy says, we have to be back inside in five minutes.” Skittish, Lionel says. 

Their unreadable faces and back glances drained me as they squeezed through the gates. They trudge along the clinker brick walled panhandle, with back glances. Their looks draining me as they step further along the driveway. My fingers clawed over the top of the steering. My body slumps, as the stoop’s door gleams snapping close. I sit lingering, feeling lonely. ‘_They’re not going to come back!_’ I snap myself back, shift into gear, back up into the street, to drive away.

After the morning’s flurry of office goers, along Braamfontein’s towers rising from the sidewalk, I enter the lobby, press the call button, “Belgian Consulate.” The intercom blares a woman’s metallic voice. Borrowing the elevator to the 7th floor, I step out to a stern-sweet Flemish woman presiding over the reception desk, to whom I handed my expiring passport. I also handed her a Supreme Court divorce decree and asked to have Jean’s name removed from my official documents. The secretary’s words spark a wave of frustration. “You need an officially recognized translator to translate into one of the official languages.” She said. At the thought tightening my chest. ‘_This is English — Not some obscure African language?_’ Helpless, I fumed. I refrained from saying. ‘_More money going to waste on this damned divorce — forget it._’ left me grim.

“Don’t tell your ex-wife she’s a Belgian Citizen...” The Belgian Consulate secretary‘s words echoed in my mind, handing me my new passport. Each syllable dripping with hidden meaning. Turning away toward the elevator door. As I’m driving, hit the highway outbound, to exit and weave to Sandton City. Parking in the mall’s garage, at the rhythm of my steps through the gleaming corridor. I cross storekeepers, ending keys jingling facing doors, to unlock top and bottom plate-glass door locks. To descend the escalator to the lower floor. A few strides further, the spacious corner storefront of last year was plastered with brown paper panels. In search, I step on. 

The once spacious Sandown Travel Agency moved next door, to a shrunk storefront spread of travel magazines to a single window. I step inside, knowing I wanted the cheapest fare to New York, with an open return date, sad their distancing walk along the panhandle driveway blurs my eyesight. I step up to the woman occupying the Greek woman, Chrissa’s chair behind the desk. She had been so proficient, knowing I wanted none of the cluttered, glossy travel magazines.

With a nod, I accepted the woman’s offer, a bittersweet thrill while aching for my boys. Aetheria at her harp, the sun’s golden strings, wove a melody destined to guide me toward pastures, touch my heart resonate to mind. “Ani od chai, chai, chai” (I’m still alive, alive, alive) followed by the stirring anthem, “Am Yisrael Chai” (The Nation of Israel is alive).

The idea of globetrotting for the same price feather soft walk toward the parking garage. My mind whirred in a frantic ballet. Ensuring a smooth return to South Africa before I even left a hassle-free return to the country. Driving away, to hit the highway south, Slipping behind the wheel, to an engine purr, I pull onto the highway south, until Johannesburg’s skyscrapers open, to bustling traffic along the plinth. I exit before the overpass railway yard. I’m borrowing the familiar off-ramp, into city streets. 

Pulling into the concrete skeletal of the parking garage beside the traffic department. I step out and head back into the bustling traffic, but scarce pedestrians along the sidewalk.

I entered the hall, rows of wickets stretching both flanks. I search overhead for the clerk’s function tagged. After the holiday season, without queue, I approached the clerk. I handed my passport, asking. “Can I have an Authorization for an extended journey out of the country?” The woman flipped through the pages, her expression unreadable. The woman left a page-size stamp. “You can’t exceed six months out of the country!” she says, handing back my passport. While I’m aware I couldn’t comply, leaving me from year to year to walk a tightrope, from being discovered. Leaving with my renewed passport with blank pages, while holding onto a torn-out page with my permanent USA visa.

Ivo dropped me off at the airport, his Cancer-Monkey’s usual teasing. I step out, exchanging Goodbyes, I hurry away, towing my calf suitcase meddling with throngs of departing passengers. Single-minded steps, through check-in, passport control, and the gate’s boarding pass check. friendly spirits shed shielding in my flight. I lower myself into my seat, opting for every chance not to regret a moment in my life. sit gazing out the porthole, mindless, while taxiing, and the terminal slipping behind, to lift-off. abstracting from my past and future, while I’m in the flight crew's care.