Journey back from Ixtlan

Meeting the Warrior It guess it was a late spring night in 2000; his first trip to Iran. Mehrabad International Airport was filled with young people crowding here and there, talking about him on every corner. His books were on the top of the international bestseller lists. Presumably his Iranian Publisher had changed his flight date a few times to avoid any trouble possibly caused by his young fans, but still they had managed to figure out what day and what time he would arrive, just as I did. He was a phenomenon. In just a couple years, his fame as an author had reached the highest rating as a bestselling author in his country, in Iran, and around the world. A huge crowd of young people had showed up in groups, hoping for a chance at an autograph or a moment with him on camera. As I squeezed the letter tightly in my hand, I noticed how exited I was. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to hand him the letter, but it was worth a shot. For some reason, rather than the regular butterflies we all feel in our stomachs at such times, I had the thought that something was not right! I went out to have some fresh air and to rehearse my sentences—the things I wanted to tell him, like how I admired him and how his writings had inspired me in the toughest times of my last few years. I was reviewing these thoughts when that butterfly feeling hit me again. This time it was very strong. All of a sudden I knew for sure he wasn’t going to show up at the International Arrivals Terminal. Suddenly I found myself running toward the Domestic Arrivals, which was about a five minute walk from where I was. As soon as I got there, I knew I was at the right place. Apparently I wasn’t the only one with that weird feeling. About fifteen to twenty other young adults were also there waiting for him. All of a sudden, we heard a whispering all around us; is it him, is it him? My heart beat accelerated. I saw him coming out, surrounded by some huge men, probably his bodyguards or the publisher’s people. I recognized him. He had finally showed up; it was him—Paulo Coelho! People from his Farsi publishing company quickly surrounded him with baskets of flowers and handshakes. Without a second of delay, they led him toward the exit door. One of the publisher’s men told him, “Mr. Coelho, we had to change the terminal because there are hundreds of young people at the International Arrivals. It may get out of control. Please accept our apologies.” Paulo smiled and said, “I understand.” I thought, Come on, guys. I’m sure he wanted to see that young, passionate crowd. You guys don’t know him at all. It was one of the most anticipated moments of my life. As soon as they grabbed his luggage and moved toward the exit door, I made up my mind and ran to him with the letter in my sweaty hand. I greeted him passionately, welcoming him to Iran. I told him that he had no idea what his visit to Iran meant to our younger generation. He listened to me attentively. Then I asked him if I could give him a letter. He smiled, shook hands with me, and said, “A letter? For me? Wow, of course you can. I’m honored. No one has ever given me a letter in an airport before. I’ll definitely read it. Can’t wait to see what’s in it!” I wasn’t sure if he was just trying to be nice or if he actually cared. But now, after almost 12 years, I think he really meant it. Everything happened so quickly. A man from the publishing company ran to us as soon as he saw us talking. (It was Arash Hejazi, Paulo’s Iranian publisher. I met him later.) He appreciated my enthusiasm first and then turned to Paulo and said to him that they had to leave before others found out where he was. I told Paulo that inside the letter was my contact information, in case he wanted to contact me. He said he would read it gladly, and we shook hands again. Then they got in the car. Others were watching us, giving me their thumbs up as a sign of a good job. Maybe they thought I was very bold and courageous to approach him in that situation. Or perhaps they thought he was too famous or too unreachable to get close to. I think some of them really envied me. Paulo never knew who he was for me. He and his real or fictional characters were among my few remaining intimate friends in the painful years leading up to that moment in the airport, and even until a little while later. Without them I wouldn’t be able to go through some of the toughest things that had happened to me? No, he didn’t know that. No one knew, except one person: Brida. I left the building dancing and singing “Hallelujah.” It was one of the most exciting nights of my life. There were, of course, better days, but this one was somehow different. Maybe it was because of the similarities I shared with Paulo—not only in thoughts, but also in the events that had led my life to that exact moment—things that affected my life forever. Pursuing our personal legend, our journey of life, seeking and searching, keeping the dreams alive, and experiencing life with all of our heart and soul were the key themes in all his writings. And that’s what I’ve been trying to do in my last 22 years. Of course, when I met with the warrior, I still had a long way ahead. Once an old Buddhist guru predicted to me that I had two totally different destinies waiting for me, based on two options I faced at the moment. To give you a clear picture of those two choices, I am arranging the account of my life chronologically instead of through flash backs and flash forwards (except in two or three chapters where the story requires such a style). But I assure you that you will still be surprised at the true twists and turns in the story. If you want to know what led to that wonderful night at the airport and what happened after that close encounter with the warrior, and if you want to know what two choices I faced, then take a deep breath. We are about to enter the rabbit hole!" p>