On my last day Gary Tomlin asked if I would like a cake for my farewell. I politely declined as I always regarded it as “the cake of death.” After so many deaths I didn’t need another reminder I was exiting. The cake of death typically happened during a break, and our executives would say their kind words in front of photographers with most of the actors and crew present. Then the cake of death would be cut and we would “celebrate” another demise.
Death is no stranger to daytime television. If a storyline got tired, a death could liven things up. If an actor wasn’t renewing a contract, death was a viable option for a swift and dramatic exit. If an actor was aging, unruly or simply deemed unnecessary to the plot, dying brought drama and closure. On and off the camera—not to mention in the hearts of devoted fans—death was a fever pitch of emotion. As essential to the sands in the hourglass as love, marriage and birth.
On the lam, Days of Our Lives. (Author’s Collection)
I wanted to leave quietly and just go off into the next stage of my life without regrets. They were a great team doing complicated work in a business that was executed with breathtaking speed. I did dodge bullets staying alive in this very competitive game. You can’t be loved by everybody, but with the training I had I can sincerely say I did my best.
Ken Corday made a difference in my life for the great education I got because of his embrace and the international appeal that brought us all onto the world stage.
When I finished my last scene, neither Gary Tomlin nor Ken Corday came to say goodbye. Gary had taken the day off. I thought I deserved better than that. Kindness is not expensive.
I initially resisted writing about my beginnings and soap opera career. I intended for this book to begin with my first trip to Egypt. That trip to one of Earth’s most magical places changed everything for me. My success in acting allowed me to take the many journeys you’ll read about in the pages that follow. Without my New York adventures, without my daytime television success and longevity, it’s unlikely my travels would have been so extensive. Exploring the world the way I do presents all types of drama. All sorts of highs and all sorts of lows. Not unlike the journey of being a soap opera character. I was well prepared.
III.
PLACES
A DISCOVERY IN EGYPT
CLIMBING MOUNT SINAI
ASSISI
IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF MOSES
TRANSITIONS
COMING FULL CIRCLE
HATSHEPSUT AND THE VALLEY OF THE KINGS
THE GREAT ESCAPE
DISCOVERING A HOLY SITE
PASSAGE TO TROY
BALLOONING OVER THE VALLEY OF THE KINGS
DREAMING OF CASABLANCA
CHRISTMAS IN ISRAEL
LEBANON
THE CITADEL
THE WAY OUT IS THE WAY THROUGH
ALEXANDRIA: IN SEARCH OF ALEXANDER AND CAVAFY
ITHACA
INTO ENEMY TERRITORY
SUNSET AT GIZA
THE ELGIN MARBLES
KASTELLORIZO
A Discovery in Egypt
MY FASCINATION WITH HISTORY, EGYPT IN PARTICULAR, BEGAN when I was twelve years old. It was then that my history class at Cleveland Boys High School was invited on an excursion to view an ancient mummy at the History Museum in Sydney, Australia. When we arrived, all in perfect order wearing our perfect uniforms, we stood in awe as a sarcophagus was opened and there before us lay a Pharaoh from Egypt’s Golden Age. We stood there for fifteen minutes while our teacher described this wonder.
All I could absorb was that his hair was still there, and that at over 3,000 years old, it was still as brilliant a red as it ever was in life. His nails were long and dark, and his nose reminded me of Captain Hook. Most of my classmates reacted as though this were a scene out of a horror movie. As for me, I wanted to touch the sarcophagus. Any hands-on experience was completely prohibited, naturally. So we filed out as good students do, but my mind was still on the ancient mummy. I was fascinated and wanted more.
I waited until everyone left, then ran back while no one was watching. I climbed over the ropes and opened the lid of the sarcophagus. I knew that until I touched it I couldn’t believe it was real. Against all odds, I carefully touched the hair, the nails and finally the nose. I felt a sense of exhilaration—a feeling that would be short-lived as my teacher, furious at my absence, ran in and promptly sent me to the headmaster for insubordination. As punishment, my hands were whipped four times with a bamboo cane. The pain was a small price to pay for such an experience. But what the hell, my life was just beginning.
Cheops’ Pyramid. (Author’s Collection)
One of my earliest dreams as a child was to visit Cheops’ Pyramid in Egypt under a full moon. I came across a photograph of the Pyramid during my history studies and thought it surreal. So it was fitting that this would be the destination of my first journey to Egypt in the mid-’70s.
I arrived in Cairo, a world so alien from my surroundings in New York where I was living at the time. After winning a substantial amount of money playing blackjack at the hotel casino in Cairo, I impulsively hired a cab to drive me to Giza at 1 a.m. I was fortunate that it was such a clear night. Half an hour later, there in the distance I could see the silhouette of the great Wonder of Egypt. I couldn’t wait to experience it at my feet.
Leaving the cab behind, I ran toward it while never looking up, until the great icon was before me. As I raised my eyes, there it was. Over 4,000 years old, this colossus stood with a full moon directly above it just like the photo from my studies. It offered the illusion that the moon’s bright light had created a halo above its girth. Witnessing this boyhood dream before me, I was suddenly overcome with emotion. A short-lived feeling, it was to be. From out of the night’s shadows stepped five armed men, faces so dark I could barely see anything but their piercing eyes. They quickly grabbed me and began to drag me toward Cheops. The only one of them who spoke English said, “It’s much more fascinating inside.”
There was something in the way he said it that I knew at that moment I was in trouble. In an attempt to remove myself from any danger I quickly shouted, “The Greeks built the Pyramids and the ancient Egyptians were the slaves.” He translated what I said. At first, they looked confused, and then angry. They began screaming at me in Arabic. In a split second I saw an opening and dashed away toward the waiting cab. The chase began. In the distance, I could hear the siren of a police car approaching.
The police intercepted. Thank God the cabbie had called them. As I turned around, the eerie band of five had once again disappeared into the shadows of the Pyramid. The police lectured me on the dangers of the night, informing me that people have been known to disappear beneath the sands. Especially those who traveled alone. I was lucky to have escaped. They could smell I was a novice exploring foreign territories. Now, with one obstacle down, I knew it was only the beginning of a lifetime of journeys.
The next morning, my guide (a respected elder) took me to a tomb in Saqqara, also known as the “cemetery of the ancients.” There lies its oldest structure, the Steppe Pyramid, built 5,000 years ago and a magnificent structure of the time. We had secured authorization to enter the newly discovered Royal Tomb of Mere, dated 2340 BC, that belonged to a high official of the Pharaohs. The musty smell of the air inside was prominent. And it felt familiar, even though I had not been there before. My guide mentioned that the noble’s mummy had disappeared, likely destroyed in antiquity by robbers. There were about four rooms, but one in particular gave me a profound sense of knowing. I couldn’t describe what I felt to my guide, but I wanted to be alone and have a meditation there. Permission was granted.
For half an hour I sat in the sand, and an extraordinary thing happened. As I came out of the meditation, I dug my hands in the sand beneath me and with one hand discovered an object wrapped in a mummified cloth. I carefully brought it to the surface, unwrapped it and found a young man’s jaw that I estimated to be over 4,000 years old. Then, with my other hand dug deep in
to the ancient sands, I lifted out a beautiful necklace filled with semiprecious stones and encased in gold.
As I examined my treasures, I heard voices approaching. I didn’t want to give up my discovery, so I buried the necklace quickly back into the sand and hid the mummified cloth under my armpit.
My guide arrived and I showed him what I had discovered. To my surprise he said, “Keep it, it belongs to you.”
As we were driving away from the tomb, I further examined my treasure. Thoughts raced: Did it really belong to me? Had it waited all this time for me to bring it back into the light? Was it mine from another life? I had no answers.
I turned around and looked through the back window of the car, and with the great Steppe Pyramid getting smaller and smaller behind me, I began to sob. My guide asked what was wrong. I explained that I felt I was leaving behind a part of myself from the ancient past. He was moved. Upon leaving Cairo, I asked my guide how to get the find through customs. He told me to give him twenty dollars, which he in turn gave to the official, and I passed through promptly. We embraced and he quietly said, “I love that you love my country. Please come back, after all, you had lived here in a previous life. That was your discovery.” What a wonderful way to finish this journey. It began with a threat and ended with a revelation.
As I navigated customs in New York the officer asked, “What the hell is that?”
“Family heirlooms,” I replied, “one of my ancestors.”
With a disgusted look on his face he said, “What, you have to live with this?”
“Yes. And I will have to pass it on to the next generation.”
He quickly dismissed me and my treasure.
Ten years later I did return to the Tomb of Mere, but it had been thoroughly cleaned out, with no evidence of the necklace I had discovered and buried back into the sand.
Climbing Mount Sinai
Sitting on Mt. Sinai at dawn. (Author’s Collection)
I read an article in the Los Angeles Times about some of the revelations people experienced when they climbed Mt. Sinai, the mountain where Moses had met God by the burning bush at the foot of the summit.
Ready for a new adventure, I called Louis Muchy, a spiritual teacher and friend who at sixty-two years of age had never left America. He agreed to make the trip with me, and like in ancient times, the master and the student, young and old, would explore it together.
We arrived at Cairo Airport and were embraced by what we thought were government officials, only to learn later they were travel agents. We arranged to have them meet us at the hotel foyer to receive our tickets to Sinai. Early that morning I was meditating while Louis was having breakfast downstairs. It always helped me start my day peacefully, before the onslaught of modern life. In Cairo, when crossing the street, you take your life into your own hands. As the Egyptians say, “If it is written, it is done.”
In a subconscious state, I felt and saw something I had never experienced before. I lay frozen in a state of fear. I couldn’t move my arms, let alone get up. An amazing apparition appeared before me: a Pharaoh, wearing a bright golden headdress and with piercing painted eyes came at me over and over again. The face finally stopped, inches from mine, transfixed. It was frightening. Then flashes of golden rain came pouring into my being. My body jolted every time it came at me. I couldn’t make a sound. I knew then that I was having an out-of-body experience. Then suddenly it disappeared. As I left the meditation I thought, What the hell was that? I was surprised that I had been under for almost an hour. I couldn’t wait to tell Louis.
Tomb of Mere. (Author’s Collection)
While visiting the archeological museum in Cairo that afternoon, a relief on a wall of the Pharaoh Akhenaten with golden rays pouring down on him stood out to me. Was he the one I saw coming at me in my meditation? And was the golden rain I felt the sun’s rays pouring through me?
“That’s him,” I told Louis, who said he felt the Pharaoh in my meditation was preparing us for the climb and guiding us to the light.
Later that afternoon the travel agent met us in the hotel foyer to give us our travel arrangements for crossing the desert to Mt. Sinai. As I went to hand him my American Express card, it snapped in half between my two fingers. He jolted. The concierge, who had witnessed the incident from behind his desk, rushed over. He asked to see the travel agent’s license, and with that the agent excused himself and bolted out. When the concierge examined the tickets, he told us we were about to be scammed. I felt we were being protected in this search for Moses’ path. Along that road I realized that “the way through and the way out” would be met with obstacles and shadows.
The concierge recommended a new driver, and for six hours the next day we drove, passing by the Suez Canal and into the endless desert. I turned to my teacher and said, “This is the place where Moses guided his people to the Promised Land, and so are we on our own terms.”
Louis replied, “That’s what deserts are about, a place to be cleansed and renewed.” It was a long drive but interesting to observe how the winds had sculpted this endless landscape.
That afternoon we arrived at a small hotel below Sinai made of ancient stones and blended into the face of the Sinai. A guide picked us up at 1 a.m. for the great trek up the Holy Mountain, which reaffirmed my belief that mountains are nature’s monuments to man because they are closer to God.
We began the 7,500-foot ascent. We passed the great monastery of St. Catherine, built in the 6th century AD by the Emperor Justinian to protect the monks. Since its inception the monastery has never been without its believers. Even the Bedouins who roam and live in this environment are always there. It was wonderful to see Louis’ first journey out of the United States at the site where the Ten Commandments were created by God’s hand. His face was luminous.
Inside Tomb of Mere. (Author’s Collection)
St. Catherine’s Monastery. (Author’s Collection)
At the top of Sinai. (Author’s Collection)
In memory of Louis Muchy. (Author’s Collection)
The whole purpose of climbing at that hour, apart from avoiding the heat, was to arrive in time to witness God’s holy light at dawn, creating new beginnings. Rather than riding a camel, we decided to walk the path as Moses did. Our guide was pleased. As Louis said, “The way to keep a trail alive is to walk on it.”
As we walked along the very long and arduous rocky path, the bright light of the moon served as our ever-present guide. Almost every hour we would come across a Bedouin tent where tea was prepared for those making the pilgrimage.
Louis was a little nervous that at his age he might not be able to complete the steep journey. What kept him going was the privilege of climbing this treasured mountain, and by completing it he would become part of that heritage. Four hours and many steps later, Louis had to pause. He insisted that I continue without him. He said I could not miss out on the light that strikes you at dawn once you get to the top. Reluctantly, I left him with the guide and paced myself quickly to climb the last 375 steps leading to the top. It was exhausting, but the sun had not yet shown its face. I looked down to the end of the trail and spotted Louis walking slowly, on his terms. He seemed frail, so I ran down as fast as I could until I reached him. Exhausted from the effort, Louis fell on the rocky slope. Much to my dismay, the guide found it humorous. As I lifted Louis up, I told the guide he should have respect for his elders. He just shrugged, and I told him we did not need his services any longer. I was stunned by his attitude as he walked away, swearing in Arabic. But there are no mistakes and I felt strongly that we had to do this together, teacher and student. Slowly, painfully with each step, our feet aching, Louis trying to catch his breath, we finally reached our destination.
On the rocky top, walking on stones so ancient, we leaned against a tiny church. An old monk came out, chanting “Kyrie eleison, Kyrie eleison” and imparting blessings to us from God. In his nineties, the monk had to be carried all the way down to St. Catherine’s monastery for the annual
Feast of Bread to join all the other monks. It was the only time he went down. He was a true hermit.
Moments after the blessing, the powerful sun rose up over the mountains as it has for eons, with its golden rays embracing us. As I stood there, I remembered the cognition that happened in my hotel room where I felt the Pharaoh God Akhenaten hit me with his rays of gold, but now it was I who was experiencing my God’s light with another revelation. We talked about it, sang hymns about it, and then Louis and I embraced each other because of it. We knew that we had made our pilgrimage in our time and on our own terms. We realized that to reach a sacred space in life one must voyage through the shadows, no matter how dark the light—and when it shines through you, the feeling is euphoric.
Louis Muchy died in 2007. I had taken him to Italy and Greece as well. He never forgot that first journey, as it inspired him to seek other worlds on his own. It made a difference at the end of his life’s search when he quietly went into the light, shining. I miss him dearly.
Assisi
Lion eating a Christian at the Cathedral of St. Rufino, Assisi. (Author’s Collection)
Sir John Mandeville once said, “If a man set out from home on a journey and kept right on going, he would come back to his own front door. It is when you come full circle, that you perceive the truth of that journey, that we gain a greater understanding of how we see life, the world, and God. And eventually, it will bring about change.”
I always dreamed of visiting Italy, a country far different than any other culture. There is so much art, expressing life of the highest order. When in Rome I hired a guide to take me on a three-hour drive to Assisi, the Umbrian town in Italy. It was on my bucket list after seeing the Franco Zeffirelli film Brother Son, Sister Moon about the life of St. Francis.
Places: The Journey of My Days, My Lives Page 7
