The Human Connection

9. My Journal - July 15, 2004

I changed more quickly than Gaia and proceeded to the lobby of Casa Albertina to wait for her. My boxer-styled swimsuit – favored by Americans – seemed a bit out of place in a beach culture where men often wore skimpier versions of attire, but it was what I had. Besides, I didn"t think I could pull off the speedo look with the confidence that the European men did.

With a light t-shirt sporting a Jimmy Buffett theme and a towel tossed over my shoulder, I was ready for Gaia. I stood for a bit of time, the clock probably moving more quickly than my imagination suggested. After a moment, I realized that my stock-still posture gave away my nervousness. I tried to relax and seem more nonchalant, but the effort only lasted a minute or two.

So, where was she?

A moment later, she entered the lobby and I knew the wait was worth it. Her tanned skin and toned physique would have been enough, but the lacey top she wore could hardly disguise the neon green bikini beneath it. Smiling, as always, she approached and kissed me once more, this time closer to my mouth, and took my hand to begin the trek down to the beach.

“Would it be rude to say you look stunning?” I asked.

Throwing a knowing smile my way, she replied, “It would be rude not to.”

Once on the beach we spread our towels beside each other and settled onto the rocky shore. Gaia quickly closed her eyes and struck the pose of someone intent on perfecting her tan. I tried to mimic her composure but frequently stole looks out of the corner of my eye to see her.

Once, when I did this, she smiled, and I knew that she was mindful of my attention. And so the time passed.

* * *

“Why does democracy get bashed so much?”

I was barely awake but the words brought me to. Gaia was sitting up next to me, leaning back on her hands, her legs lazily stretched out before her. Her question seemed to come out of the blue, but then I wondered whether she had been carrying on a conversation with me that I had only vaguely kept up with while drifting somewhere in the twilight between sleep and wakefulness.

“Well,” I began, pushing myself up into the sitting position beside her. I was stalling for time to clear my head of the mist of sleep.

“Democracy is the worst form of government, except for all the others,” I offered, relying on a familiar quote to give me time to wake up.

“Winston Churchill,” she quickly replied. “But if people have the will and the power to choose their own government, why is that wrong?”

I was careful not to assume that she didn"t already have the answer.

“The will and the power is an entitlement that nature granted us,” I offered.

“Yes,” she picked up the theme, “but we hear arguments around the world, especially in North African nations and the Middle East right now, that democracy is wooden and inflexible. More importantly, we hear not only tyrants but also their people saying that democracy hides corruption, that it is a way of professing equal rights and equal treatment while hoarding the actual power for the privileged few.”

So, okay, I realized that Gaia had thought through this very carefully. I didn"t have to agree with everything she said – or disagree with it – to know that this woman had deep insights into the geopolitics of the age.

“How about a cool drink?” I offered. Gaia pursed her mouth and looked sternly at me, as if she suspected I was trying to change the subject. I wasn"t, and her smile convinced me that she knew this; I was just thirsty and I assumed that she was.

I rose to walk back to the bar at beach level, ordered two glasses of white wine, and returned to our towels. Gaia sipped hers, but then took a deeper draught than I had, managing to finish her glass of wine before I could drain my own.

Standing quickly and looming over me, with the bright sunlight on her shoulders and her face, she said, “Come on. Time for a swim.”